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9

II. VOLUME II

IMITATIONS OF HORACE'S ODES.

BOOK III. ODE III.

TO JOHN WILKES, ESQ.
The man religious to his word,
And a firm Christian, firm as you,
Whose principles are like his sword,
True to dame Honour, whilst she's true;
Like you, may laugh at tyrant peers;
Nor can the base apostate's vote,
Nor ruin, thundering in his ears,
Cram Tory nonsense down his throat.
Hambden and Pym by arts like these
To glorious patriots once gave law,
And now give nectar on their knees,
To both the Georges and Nassau.
10

Nor with less art fanatic Vane
Rul'd the wild Whigs by frantic pray'r,
Like tigers patient of the rein,
When Bacchus steps into the chair.
Cromwell, Bellona's charioteer,
Ascending to the realms of day,
With fiends and furies in his rear,
Through storms and thunder forc'd his way.
Thus to her Sydney Freedom spoke—
“Trust thee I will, tho' oft betray'd;
“Tho' Wentworth , for lewd folly's yoke,
“Left me and the Athenian maid.
“Remove yon foreign dame with speed,
“That wicked judge, those courtiers vile,
“Men that can neither write nor read,
“And give me back my ravish'd isle.
11

“'Tis well—I see the miscreants fly:
“No Fav'rite now, with haughty mien,
“Shall dare to rival kings, and try,
“Like Villiers, to seduce a queen.
“And with prophetic eyes I view
“A monk, the last of Stuart's race,
“In exile, and his slavish crew
“Of perjur'd Tories in disgrace
“Treason and he to Rome are fled ;
“There let him reign without restraint;
“And, when the spurious monarch's dead,
“Let him be made a Roman saint.
“Whilst seas divide us, let them shine,
“Let saints and martyrs for them battle;
“Whilst Stuart's tomb, like Becket's shrine,
“Is only trod by Romish cattle.
12

“On Magna Charta's solid base
“Britannia's Majesty shall stand;
“Confin'd alone by boundless space,
“Her sons shall conquer sea and land.
“Nor showers of lead nor pointed steel
“Their native ardour shall withhold:
“Thrice happy, could they always feel
“The same innate contempt for gold.
“O Britons! whilst your banners wave
“In every clime, on every shore,
“Deep as the center make a grave,
“And bury that pernicious ore;
“Lest Tyranny again should rise,
“Enrich'd and strengthen'd by your gains,
“Dazzle your delegates weak eyes,
“And bind them fast in golden chains:
13

“Chains which, however, soon or late,
“I'll break, as I have done before;
“Your chains are not like those of fate,
“That tie the Frenchman to his oar.
“For, should the Goths again prevail,
“Should impious men again bear sway,
“Their blaze shall, like a comet's tail,
“Awe none but fools, and pass away.
“Ev'n if rebellion, a third time,
“Shall rise again and leave her bed,
“Freedom again shall load and prime,
“And the Third Brunswick shoot her dead.”
But hold—this is too high a flight;
I fear we both shall come to shame:
Return, my Muse, whilst we have light,
I am half blind, and you are lame.
 

Lord Rockingham, who accepted the Treasury in 1765.

Lord Bute went to Rome in 1768.

14

BOOK IV. ODE IX.

To LOLLIUS.
Though born in an ungenial clime,
Where T. with brawls his tribute pays,
'Tis possible, my lord, for Time
To fancy these uncommon lays.
If Shakspeare every Muse inspire,
Sole sovereign of the tuneful throng,
Praise still is due to Cowley's lyre,
And Gray's sweet melancholy song.
Prior shall live with laughing eye
Amongst the vivid sons of fame;
Maids ever weep, and widows sigh,
And burn with Eloisa's flame.
Not Sparta's queen alone has tripp'd,
Charm'd with fine breeding and fine clothes;
15

Other fair princesses have slipp'd ,
And troubled the whole world's repose.
Teucer is not the only prince
Famous for shooting the long bow .
Troy has been lost before, and since,
By cunning, with a patriot shew.
Heroes have bled as well as Hector,
Both for their minions and chaste wives;
Else how had Cromwell been protector,
Or Charles and Edward lost their lives?
Pitts with the same aspiring mind
In dark oblivion are gone down;
But they have not the luck to find
Churchills to hand them to renown.
16

Worth, undistinguish'd by applause,
But equals sloth; nor shall the chief
In livid silence guard our laws,
Forgotten like a mouldy brief.
Supremely wise when wisdom's wanted,
Prudent where caution is a merit,
Upright, inflexible, undaunted,
Pure and enlighten'd like a spirit.
Sworn enemy to falsehood base,
Against corruption firm and steady,
Not for one single heat or race,
But always booted, always ready.
You rose at Freedom's sacred call,
Snatch'd her from th' invading great,
Added new trophies to her hall,
And fix'd the goddess in her seat.
17

'Tis the wise use, not the possessing,
The smiles of fortune or of kings,
That can make wealth a real blessing,
Or take from poverty her stings.
That dignifies the virtuous man,
Scorning, though poor, to flinch or faulter,
Who for his prince or his dear clan
Despises the impending halter.
 

Brantome furnishes us with many examples of royal frailty.

Cydonio arcu—the Cretan or long bow. See St. Paul's Epistle to Titus, chap. i. ver. 12: Κρητες αει Ψευσται. The Stuart race of princes were as famous as Teucer for the Cretan bow.

Charles Churchill the poet, who celebrates Lord Chatham in his works.

18

BOOK III. ODE XXIX.

To MÆCENAS.
Offspring of British kings of yore,
To put your spirits in fine tune,
I have some Burgundy in store,
With roses for the tenth of June .
Quit those damp glades, nor musing mope,
Enchanted with your arms across,
Fix'd like a statue on a slope,
Or the pagoda like a Joss.
Let not the noise of yon black city
One moment discompose your peace;
Look down on pomp awhile with pity,
And let fastidious plenty cease.
19

A grateful change to homely fare,
A cot, a barn-door fowl, and mutton,
Oft smooth the anxious face of care,
And squeamishness herself turns glutton.
Now Phœbus rages, now the swain
With languor drives his fainting sheep
From the parch'd meads and sultry plain,
To silver streams and thickets deep.
Upon the Thames there's not a breeze,
No zephyr with expiring breath,
To animate those horrid trees,
Silent and motionless as death.
There you form all your decent plans,
To righteousness give a new birth;
And with your Tories and your clans
Govern the princes of the earth.
20

Heaven kindly keeps us in the dark,
And, spite of all our fine-spun schemes,
Laughs when we overshoot the mark,
Both at our fears and sanguine dreams.
The present's all we have to heed;
Futurity is like a current;
Now smooth and pleasant as the Tweed,
Now dreadful like a highland torrent.
Tumbling with fury down the vale,
The rocks resound the mountains rattle;
Pines float along with groves of cale,
Huts, plaids, blue bonnets, and black cattle.
Happy is he who lives to-day,
Lives for himself, 'tis so much gain,
Whether the next be sad or gay,
Or the sun never rise again.
21

'Tis done—nor can the power of fate
Cancel and set the deed aside,
Nor Fortune's insolence and hate
That loves to mortify our pride.
Let her pursue her cruel sport,
Past pleasures cannot be destroy'd;
She cannot, as she does at court,
Vacate what we have once enjoy'd.
Faithful whilst she continues mine;
But, if she violates my bed,
The painted harlot I resign,
And Virtue, though unportion'd, wed.
When the storm beats, and seas run high,
I shall not importune with prayers,
The angry princes of the sky
To spare my curious Cyprean wares.
22

Nor duped by hope, like many a one,
Stay blubbering beneath the deck,
But, when both mast and rudder's gone,
Take to my boat and leave the wreck.
 

The Pretender's birth day, when the Jacobites used to put white roses in their bosoms and hats.

23

BOOK IV. ODE XVth.

A TORY ODE .

I tried to sing, and touch'd my strings,
Of cities storm'd and conquer'd kings;
But Phœbus cried, What notes are these?
Forbear; nor let thy flimsey sail,
Swell'd by a light delusive gale,
Expose thee to the classic seas.
This age has brought us golden days,
Our guardian saint is cloy'd with praise,
With trophies and triumphant banners;
He lets St. Andrew clear the coast,
And drive the Whigs from every post,
To sweeten and correct their manners.
24

Cæsar has shut the gates of Janus ,
And our Mæcenas to contain us,
Apt to be mutinous and idle,
Vamps the old arts, and makes them fit,
And changes Pelham's foolish bit
For Mansfield's scientific bridle.
By these old arts, Britannia's fame,
Diffusive as the Roman name,
In every clime has fix'd her standard,
As far as from the farthest West
To where the Phœnix builds her nest,
As far as ever Scotchman wander'd.
Whilst Tories rule, no civil fury,
No persecuting judge nor jury,
Shall interrupt our sweet repose;
No angry parties draw their swords,
No leaders with big looks and words,
Shall lead their princes by the nose.
25

Our laws like thunderbolts are hurl'd,
And echo'd round the conquer'd world,
Their voice the stoutest heart appals,
Sachems in awful horror bound,
Hear not with wonder more profound
Niagara's tremendous falls.
Whilst we, our wives and children, all
Assembled in the good old hall,
And every neighbour young and old,
With Christmas merriment and cheer,
Plenty of cider, punch, and beer,
Fiddles and pipes like barons bold,
Shall toast with bumpers and huzzas
The chiefs that fell in the old cause,
And celebrate the heavenly breed,
Sprung from a Latian swain's embrace ,
When Venus took the form and face
Of the fair daughter of the Tweed.
 

Alludes to the Accession of the Tories to power and places, soon after the Accession of George the Third.

The peace made by the King, in 1763.

Lord Bute.

The Anchises of the Tories was an Italian fidler.

26

BOOK XXIV. ODE VIII.

TO DANIEL WEBB, ESQ.
I would, with all my heart and soul,
Send every friend a golden bowl,
And with each bowl a purse of gold,
To fill the bowl and make it smile,
And to secure the bowl awhile,
From being either pawn'd or sold.
To every military friend,
Heroick tripods I would send,
Tripods fit only for brave fellows
That is to say, crutches a pair,
And one stout leg of the same ware,
Made like the nossel of a bellows.
27

Pictures I'd send of every school,
I am so generous a fool,
With statues too and busts for niches,
These I would send to none but you,
The prince and mirror of virtù,
If I was master of such riches.
As to virtù, that point's decided,
You are sufficiently provided;
All that you want of me is metre,
You may have plenty at my forge,
I need not steal, like thrifty George ,
From Paul, in order to pay Peter.
I know the price of lyrick song
Easy, yet elegantly strong,
And know that Beckford's head of marble,
I mean that head the sculptor made,
That marble head will sooner fade,
Than any songs the Muses warble.
28

Your fame must fly with wings of paper,
Be you a Wolfe, a Howe, a Draper,
Victor at Minden or at Canna,
Or legislator great as he,
That led the Jews through the Red Sea,
And pamper'd them with quails and manna.
Great bards great favours can bestow,
In heaven above or hell below,
They can convey you with a nod,
From Styx, whenever they think fit,
And call you up to heaven by writ,
And make you an immortal god.
Lollius with Æacus may dwell;
Minos and he may judge in hell,
When future poets sing his worth,
Bute may, like Enoch, be translated,
Then made a star, and made related
To slow Bootes of the North .
29

And Sandwich, if the Muses please,
Shall outwit Mercury with ease,
And my lord duke outshine Apollo,
And each Olympick peer outvie
Castor the jockey of the sky,
And Rigby bold beat Bacchus hollow.
 

The ingenious author of the admired treatises on Painting, Poetry, Music, &c. &c.

George Grenville.

Lord Mansfield.

I know there is classical authority for this epithet,

Sive est arctophylax sive est piger ille Bootes.

Yet I cannot help fancying the author wrote Sly, instead of Slow Bootes; he is represented in his northern situation watching his charge with unremitting vigilance; and I am apt to believe that our Sly Boots is a contraction of Bootes. I have seen the same thought in a manuscript collection of verses composed by the professors of a famous university upon the Revolution in 1760. It was beautifully pursued in the verses of the astronomy professor, which struck me so that I still retain them,

Attendant upon Charles's wane,
Bootes, commonly called Bute,
The brightest star in all his train,
Without all manner of dispute:
May thou forever fixt remain,
Cunning and watchful as the dragon:
Let Ursa Minor break his chain,
And overturn the northern waggon.
Ov. Fast. iii. 405.
30

BOOK I. ODE X.

To MERCURY .
Grandson of Atlas, the most chaste
Reformer of the lewd and wicked,
Moulding green senators like paste,
By catches and decorous cricket.
Thee messenger of Jove I'll sing,
Professor of the crooked lyre,
Jocosely stealing to the spring,
Through every crooked dark desire.
Robb'd and betray'd, ungodly John ,
Threatning to shoot thee through the liver,
Laugh'd when he found his arrows gone,
And saw thee sporting with his quiver.
31

Leaving the Whigs at thy persuasion,
Whilst Pelham's beacons blaz'd in vain,
Dives forgot his flaggellation ,
And turn'd a Cocobite again.
To pious souls, delightful benches,
Blest Lord! thy golden rod assigns,
And works great marvels on light wenches,
Grateful to princes and divines
 

Lord Sandwich grandson of the celebrated Wilmot Earl of Rochester.

Whoever heard besides this author, that Atlas the father of Maia was remarkable for chastity? Critical Review.

John Wilkes.

Alluding to a transaction of great notoriety, which happened to the Duke of Bedford at Litchfield.

Superis deorum gratus et imis
Grateful to princes and divines.

As the author has not sufficiently declared which of these personages are the superi deorum, we presume, that he leaves them at liberty to toss up for it. Monthly Review.

32

BOOK II. ODE VIII.

To NELLY OBRIEN.
I would believe you once again,
Were you a tooth or nail the worse
For every oath you take in vain,
And every violated curse:
Though you bid Jasus fire your bones,
Confound yourself and all your kin;
Blast those bright eyes like precious stones;
Damn Helen's limbs and Leda's skin,
33

False and forsworn a thousand times,
Obrien's still the public toast,
Still grows more lovely from her crimes,
Godby's intrigue and Welche's boast.
Thy perjury and subtle arts,
Venus and Cupid smiling view;
Fell love that whets with blood his darts,
On whetstone of infernal blue .
For thee our youth shoot up and grow;
Each day adds captives to thy store;
Nor can the old exhausted beau
Forbear to hanker at thy door.
Mothers and misers fear thee still;
Young beauteous brides are in alarms,
Lest thy maturer charms and skill
Should draw their husbands to thy arms.
 

Lapis infernalis, or the blue stone.

34

The APOTHEOSIS or the INSTELLATION. BOOK III. ODE XXV.

To BACCHUS.
Whither, O Bacchus, am I hurry'd,
O'er mountains high, thro' woods and valleys;
How are my spirits toss'd and flurry'd,
With sudden and unwonted sallies!
Where can I find a cave to muse
Upon his lordship's envied glory;
Which of the Nine dare to refuse
To tell the strange and recent story?
Mounting I saw the egregious lord ,
O'er all impediments and bars;
I saw him at Jove's council-board,
And saw him stuck amongst the stars.
35

Not more amaz'd, with ivy crown'd,
Thy priestess, having booz'd all night,
In chains of ice sees Hebrus bound,
And all the Thracian mountains white.
I saw him top the Pyrenees,
And lost him in the blaze of day;
At night I spy'd him at his ease,
With Anser in the milky way.
Thou, to whom Naiads bend their knees,
That nightly sport in Charlotte's bowers,
Whose hands can pluck up forest trees,
As easily as gather flowers;
Deign to inspire my feeble song;
Deign to accompany my flight;
Inform me, Bacchus, when I'm wrong,
Invigorate me when I'm right.
36

I hate tame themes, abhor tame measure,
And scorn the vulgar's tasteless praises:
'Tis hazardous; but O what pleasure
To reel with thee through pathless mazes!
 

Lord Bute, made Knight of the Garter.

Charlotte Hayes.

37

BOOK III. ODE XXVI.

To VENUS.
Once, though not lately, I confess,
I lov'd, and lov'd with some success;
But now, ay now, 'tis quite provoking,
Now I will hang up my fine cloaths,
Hang up my harp and take to prose,
And try to turn my pipe to smoaking.
Samples of hair, in fine condition,
Surrender'd by fair composition,
Taken by storm, or won by guile;
Writings, for writing sake, not reading,
Assignments, grants, and special pleading,
Shall blaze in one funereal pile.
38

Mountains are hoary oft with snow,
When all the vales are green below,
Still, Venus, let me cleave to thee;
Let Chloe but a while be kind,
Then, if my Chloe change her mind,
Chloe will only copy me.
39

BOOK III. ODE III.

To THOMAS SCROOPE, Esq.
Remember, friend, to shun excess,
Ill suited to a life so frail and short;
Let no perplexing care oppress,
No giddy joy to insolence transport.
Whether, to gloomy thoughts resign'd,
By drops, like sullen thaws, hours melt away,
Or the gay sun-shine of the mind
Fills all the soul with intellectual day.
Whether, in social bowers, you ply
The festive bowl, or, by some dimpling stream,
Indulge the sentimental sigh,
At life's absurd, inexplicable dream:
Let wine and elegance unite,
Their choicest blessings largely to dispense;
Quicken desire, improve delight,
And give the sweetest feelings to the sense.
40

Whilst fate the present bliss bestows,
Catch the important moment, ere 'tis pass'd,
Fleeting and pleasant as the short-liv'd rose,
Exhaling fragrance to the last.
Those groves you view with looks so tender,
Those flow'ring shrubs, rear'd with a parent's care,
You must relinquish and surrender
To the capricious fancy of your heir.
Nor boots it, whether poor or rich,
Whether you are nobly born or meanly bred;
Whether you drop your being in a ditch,
Or leave it lingering in a bed.
For, soon or late, the fatal urn
Shall issue forth our last relentless doom;
To exile sent, without return,
To endless rest, and an eternal tomb.
41

To Miss ---

Grazie a gl'inganni tuoi,
Alfin respiro, O Nice;
Alfin d'uno infedele
Ebber gli dei pietà.
Metastasio

Thanks to your wiles, deceitful fair,
The gods, so long in vain implor'd,
At last have heard a wretch's prayer;
At last I find myself restor'd.
From thy bewitching snares and thee:
I feel for once this is no dream;
I feel my captive soul is free;
And I am truly what I seem.
I cannot now, as heretofore,
Put on indifference or disdain,
To smother flames, that burn no more,
To hide a passion void of pain.
42

Without a blush, your name I hear,
No transient glow my bosom heats;
And, when I meet your eye, my dear,
My fluttering heart no longer beats.
I dream, but I no longer find
Your form still present to my view;
I wake, but now my vacant mind
No longer waking dreams of you:
Absent for you, no more I pine,
But wander careless day or night;
Present, no word, no look, no sign,
Argues disturbance or delight,
I hear your praise, no tender flame
Now thrills responsive through my veins;
No indignation, only shame,
For all my former wrongs remains.
43

I meet you now without alarms,
Nor longer fearful to displease;
I talk with ease about your charms,
E'en with my rival talk with ease.
Whether in angry mood you rise,
Or sweetly sit with placid guile,
Vain is the lightning of your eyes,
And vainer still your gilded smile.
Loves, in your smiles, no longer play;
Your lips, your tongue, have lost their art;
Those eyes have now forgot the way
That led directly to my heart.
Whether with grief the mind's diseased,
Or the unburthen'd spirits, glad;
No thanks to you, when I am pleased,
You have no blame, when I am sad
44

Hills, woods, and lawns, and bleating flocks,
Without you, captivate me still,
But dreary moors and naked rocks,
Tho' with you, make my blood run chill.
Hear me; and judge if I'm sincere;
That you are beauteous still I swear;
But Oh! no longer you appear
The fairest, and the only fair.
Hear me; but let not truth offend,
In that fine form, in many places,
I now spy faults, my lovely friend,
Which I mistook before for graces.
And yet, though free, I thought at first,
With shame my weakness I confess,
My agonizing heart would burst,
The agonies of death are less.
45

Who would not, when his soul's oppress'd,
Gladly possess himself again?
To pluck a serpent from his breast,
Who would not bear the sharpest pain?
The little songster thus you see
Caught in the cruel school-boy's toils,
Struggling for life, at last, like me,
Escapes, and leaves his feather'd spoils.
His plumage soon resumes its gloss,
His little heart soon waxes gay;
Nor falls, grown cautious from his loss,
To artifice again a prey.
Perhaps you think I only feign,
I do but strive against the stream,
Else why for ever in this strain,
Why talk upon no other theme?
46

It is not love, it is not pique,
That gives my whole discourse this cast;
'Tis nature that delights to speak
Eternally of dangers past.
Carousing o'er the midnight bowl
The soldier never ceasing prates,
Shews every scar to every soul,
And every hair-breadth 'scape relates.
Thus the poor galley slave, released
From pains as great and bonds as strong.
On his past sufferings seems to feast,
And hug the chain he dragg'd so long.
To talk is all that I desire;
When once I let my larum go,
I never stop, nor once enquire,
Whether you're entertain'd or no.
47

Which of us has most cause to grieve?
Which situation would you choose?
I, a capricious tyrant leave,
And you, a faithful lover lose.
I can find maids in every rout,
With smiles as false, and forms as fine;
But you must search the world throughout,
To find a heart as true as mine.
48

ODE.

Full long to laughter-loving fancy wed,
A foe to nought but treachery and art,
Though mirthful folly ever claim'd my head,
My friends and country always had my heart.
Erato, void of true celestial fire,
For thee, weak maid, my feelings are too strong:
Clio, for once, will animate my lyre,
And let my country have one virtuous song.
Whilst wretched Albion for ages mourns
Her conquering sons like laurel'd victims slain;
O could I write, upon their sacred urns,
A verse as lasting as Britannia's pain!
Blush, blush, to read how injur'd Braddock fought;
Braddock in whom were ever found ally'd,
The soldier's ardour with the chieftain's thought,
The stoic's fortitude, without his pride.
49

Unmindful of the hero's dying prayer,
Heaven struck a dreadful and avenging blow;
A blow that wrung from England in despair,
Those bitter tears that flow'd for Wolfe and Howe .
Congenial spirits, each a self-form'd chief,
Each great as any chief in ancient lore,
Born to extend her glory and her grief,
Beyond what Britain ever knew before.
Valiant in arms, courteous and gay in peace,
See Williams snatch'd to an untimely tomb!
With every art and elegance of Græce,
And all the energy of patriot Rome.
And Armytage , alas! in blooming youth,
Left undistinguish'd in a hostile grave,
50

Whom neither plighted love, nor candid truth,
Nor spirited integrity could save.
Lo! tow'ring Downe , impatient of repose,
Borne on immortal Fame's impetuous wing,
Falls in the midst of Britain's fiercest foes,
And blasts the wreath design'd him by his king.
Learn, Britons, from your king, on worth to smile,
Or heaven may still have greater ills in store:
Brunswick's fair race may cease to bless your isle,
And liberty forsake her native shore.
 

General Braddock, killed in America, in 1755.

General Wolfe, slain at Quebec.

Lord Howe, killed before Ticonderoga, July, 1758.

Sir William Peer Williams, killed at Bellisle, in the year 1761. See an epitaph on him in Gray's Works.

Sir John Armytage, member of parliament for York, killed at St. Cas, in September, 1758, a young gentleman of large fortune and great expectation.

Lord Viscount Downe of the kingdom of Ireland. He died Dec. 26, 1760, of the wounds he received at Campen, in Germany. He was one of the knights of the shire for the county of York, lieutenant colonel of the 25th regiment of foot, and colonel of the southern battalion of the Yorkshire West Riding militia.

67

FABLES FOR GROWN GENTLEMEN: FOR THE YEAR 1770.

PART II

69

FABLE I. TO MY LORD ---

With parts, tho' little worse for wearing,
That scarce would pay for the repairing,
A man past forty-five,
Furnish'd with indolence and pride,
A huge tremendous spouse beside,
To save his soul alive,
Was sitting yawning by the sea,
Twirling his snuff-box just like me.
Vanquish'd almost by strenuous sloth,
He set himself a task at length,
A task above his worship's strength,
Above the strength of both.
“To sit with an attentive eye
“To mark and take a strict account,
“And know exactly the amount
“Of all the waves as they pass'd by.”
70

So putting on, to suit the case,
A calculating placid face,
He kept his reck'ning and discretion,
Till, by miscounting grown confus'd,
And consequently disamus'd,
He broke the series of progression;
Which, overflowing, fill'd him quite
Up to the throat with spleen and spite.
During this vap'rish fit of grief,
A Fox stepp'd up (my Lord, 'tis true,
It was your genius, though not you),
A Fox stepp'd up to his relief.
Begin again, said he, and mind;
Why will you poison your enjoyment?
Are there not waves enow behind,
Enow for your whole life's employment?
Of all those millions that were lent,
Myriads of millions must have bounds,
Of all those millions you have spent,
I speak of moments, not of pounds,
71

Keep no account, nor heed the sum,
Time past is nitchil, my good friend,
Remember only how you spend
The present and the time to come.
 

An Exchequer term, the charge is answered by a cipher.

72

FABLE II. TO A GREAT LAWYER.

Pray tell me, Sir, in what respect,
What harm, says Pert, in a pert gown,
Do you imagine or expect
From us, the servants of the Crown.
Why none at all, if you were wise;
And there, perhaps, the danger lies.
But let me tell you, said Sir John,
(It was a roguish Whig that spoke)
How Æsop once was set upon,
And how he flung them with a joke.
A set of jolly tars one day,
Of Athens the supporters,
Joking with Æsop in their way,
Just like a set of drunken porters;
Come on, cries one, my cunning man,
Unload that pack
Upon your back,
Give us a Fable spick and span.
Then claps him on the back, and hollows;
On which, out came the tale that follows:
73

Nature had suffer'd a contusion,
Old Ocean from his seat had wander'd,
When Jove, to clear up the confusion
And bring things to their proper standard,
Cried out, Drink, Earth, with all thy might,
Three drunken bouts will set all right.
She drank such draughts for the first time,
The mountains, soaking like a toast,
Uncover'd to the roots almost,
Appear'd with heaps of mud and slime.
The second bout, the trees appear'd;
The third, the valleys were quite clear'd:
Had she continu'd in that cue,
It would have been the worse for you,
For by and by
She must have drunk the ocean dry;
And, if she had, my witty men,
What would you sailors have done then?
Now, Sir, by way of application,
Pray look at our low situation,
74

Surrounded by a sea of law,
In imitation of our betters,
We try to keep this sea in awe,
Like Xerxes and the Dutch, with fetters;
That is, with many a bank and fence,
Labour and infinite expence,
We keep in pretty decent bounds
Prerogative, or royal pride,
That overflow our neighbours' grounds,
And spread destruction far and wide.
Suppose, from any cause you please,
You, who are trusted with the keys,
Who ought to watch against abuses,
Should think it neither harm nor sin,
To open all your gates and sluices,
And let the foaming waters in.
In such a case, to say no more,
Reck'ning all those that must be drown'd,
And some perhaps that may be found
Knock'd on the head ashore,
Tell me, ye men of subtile brain,
How many Lawyers will remain?
75

FABLE III.

A wolf pursu'd a Kid one day,
Left by a shepherd through mistake,
That, like a truant at a wake,
Loiter'd behind to sport and play.
So well Sir Lupus play'd his part
There was no chance in any shape
For her escape,
Unless she could escape by art.
As he press'd hard upon her rear,
The cunning jade,
Like a distress'd and injur'd maid,
Turn'd round, and dropp'd a tear.
Dread Sir, she cried, I see my ate,
Suspend your hunger and your hate,
Oh! let me hear that voice so sweet,
Charm me once more before my death,
Your humble maid shall at your feet,
With joy, resign her breath.
The Wolf set up a hideous howl;
The moment he began to sing,
76

He made the woods and valleys ring,
And frighten'd every beast and fowl.
He scarce had rung a dozen peals,
When, following as they were bid,
A hundred dogs were at his heels,
Which put the Wolf to flight, and sav'd the Kid.
Thus hunted Liberty besought
A respite for a certain season,
Begging, before he cut her throat,
To hear her learned Butcher reason.
The Butcher made so great a din,
His eloquence brought down the rabble;
Glad to escape with a whole skin,
Freedom left him and them to squabble.
Bad tenets openly maintain'd
Are not so bad as good ones feign'd;
Filmer, so far from doing harm,
Serv'd, like the Wolf, to give th' alarm.
77

FABLE IV.

Thoughtfully walking in his park,
His Grace, with eyes fix'd on the ground,
Beheld an object of small mark,
Made like a furz-ball, dark and round;
And, like one trod upon, it broke,
Gave a loud crack, and sent forth smoke.
His Grace's diamond buckles sullied,
He kick'd the ball with great disdain,
As if disdaining to be bullied;
The ball look'd twice as big again.
Again he kick'd, kick after kick,
Then took a stone, then tried a stick;
The ball went on at such a pace,
It was grown bigger than his Grace.
Zounds! said the Duke, what have we here?
What means this foolish apparition?
Minerva whisper'd in his ear,
My Lord, it means the opposition.
78

FABLE V.

An Ass was limping in great pain:
A nail, or else a pointed stick,
Had pierc'd his foot into the quick;
And all attempts to get it out were vain.
With melancholy face,
Quite in despair, he turn'd his back
Upon both Regular and Quack,
And told a Wolf his case;
With you, said he, my sufferings end,
Into your paws my life I put:
Eat me; but first, Sir, condescend
To draw the nail out of my foot;
Let me enjoy one moment's ease,
Devour me after when you please.
With teeth as hard as brass,
The Wolf drew out the nail;
On which his patient, John the Ass,
Whisking about his Ass's tail,
79

Full at the Wolf let fly a stroke,
That broke his jaws, and would have broke
A helmet, or a coat of mail,
That spoil'd his instruments for drawing,
And stripp'd him of his tools for chawing.
Friend, said the Ass, you are right serv'd;
Why would you alter your condition?
'Tis fit a butcher should be starv'd
When he sets up for a physician.
A thousand times it has been told,
'Tis true;
But, if the Fable's trite and old,
You'll own the application's new.
A man of wealth, therefore of weight,
A most notorious malefactor,
Approach'd a minister of state,
With loaded hands, though no contractor;
Five thousand Hoares, five thousand banks,
A ring and twenty thousand thanks;
Take but this thorn out of my side,
Prevent my fall;
80

My boroughs, ever bound and tied,
Shall wait your lordship's call.
My Lord, said he, naught can defeat us,
If you will grant me my quietus.
'Twas done; and bravely done, no doubt,
For now he join'd his powers and strength,
And had the happiness at length
To help to kick his Lordship out.
81

FABLE VI.

Crossing a river swift and wide,
A Horse, with an indignant eye,
Beheld a foolish piece of pride,
A piece of dung come prancing by.
Behold, said he, that compost vile,
The filthy stuff,
That was behind me half a mile,
Is now before me far enough.
But why should this make a Horse sick?
Delighted with malicious jokes,
Fortune plays many a worse trick,
When she plays some of her fine strokes.
Did not she, fearless of reproach,
82

Bestow on him that rubb'd my heels,
My master's widow and his coach,
And kitchen-stuff, to grease the wheels?
The lucky dog, said he, and smil'd,
Has got her daughter too with child.
 
But why should this make a Horse sick?
This is not any new vagary,
Fortune plays many a worse trick,
Quoties voluit jocari.

For the sake of the Ladies the Author altered it.

83

FABLE VII.

A flock of Cranes newly come over,
Buried in wheat up to the throat,
Like oxen rioting in clover,
Were taken at their table d'hôte.
Amongst the set
Thus taken up for vagrant game,
A Stork was found in the same net,
Pretending to be sick and lame.
With whining voice, and face of brass,
Just like a rogue with a false pass,
Seiz'd with a fainting fit,
'Tis but a moment since I lit;
For filial duty in all ages
Our house, said he, was ever noted,
By all philosophers and sages,
By poets male and female quoted:
My name is Stork, the Cranes will own
No way related to their clan;
I should as soon digest a stone
As either corn or bran.
84

Believe not me, trust your own eyes;
Take and examine us by pairs,
Our feathers are of different dyes:
How different mine is from theirs!
Neither your colour nor digestion,
The farmer cried, is now the question;
That you were taken in this place,
And in their company, is plain
But, for the honour of your race,
You shall be punish'd as a Crane.
Just so, one of the sacred bench
Was caught in criminal conversation,
Not with a juicy tempting wench,
That's an excusable temptation.
Caught in the fact, for so the story is,
Of prostitution amongst Tories.
What do you think was his defence?
The metropolitan of ---
Exclaim'd, appeal'd to common sense,
Argu'd exactly like a Stork:
85

Examine their's and my pen-feather;
Birds of so different a plume,
You will confess, I do presume,
Can never copulate together.
But, in Crim. Con. having been taken,
This could not save his holy bacon.
86

FABLE VIII.

A gnat upon an Ox's horn,
Clapping his wings, sang forth his praise,
Greater than the Unicorn:
Hail, greatest beast of al that graze!
Accept, great brute, my willing strain;
And, if my weight give you no pain,
Which I much fear,
Allow me to remain
To charm your bovine ear:
Great and mighty Chieftain, say,
Whether shall I go or stay?
The Ox replied,
Where insignificance prevails,
You always meet with empty pride;
Depend upon't, it never fails:
To me, vain insect, 'tis the same,
You may give over, or go on;
I neither felt you when you came,
Nor shall I miss you when you're gone.
87

Said Maupertuis, Pray, read this Fable,
And I'll explain it to the table.
Observe Voltaire, that chirps and sings
Near Prussia's King from night to morn;
He is the Gnat that claps his wings,
And sings upon the Ox's horn:
Voltaire replied, the Gnat suits me;
But why an Ox? there I am dull;
As for the Ox, said Maupertuis,
I wish the Ox had been a Bull .
 

If there is any meaning in these four last lines of the author, of which I hold him guiltless, to use the words of Jean Jaques, “ce n'est que pour ceux, qui ont (la Tact) l'odorat fin,” he should have said. Smellfungus.

88

FABLE IX.

Once on a time a man of fashion,
Æsop has told it you before,
In love, and blinded by his passion,
At Athens wed a common whore.
The whore, transported with devotion,
Leaving her lovers in the lurch,
And also proud of her promotion,
Attended daily the Greek church.
Venus, to whom she made her prayers,
Rated her soundly in her sleep:
You strumpet, give yourself no airs;
Your prayers, said she, and incense keep:
Not for your sake, nor for your vows,
I gave your ladyship your spouse,
Nor, like dame Fortune, for a whim;
It was because in twenty places
He had affronted all the Graces;
In short, because I hated him.
89

My Lord has made a vile buffoon
His bosom friend, the Graces cried;
Good gracious Venus, grant our boon,
Give him a harlot for his bride.
Tho' chaste, the Graces are so gay,
Venus herself is so delighted,
So taken with their winning way,
She hates all those by whom they're slighted.
90

FABLE X.

Let him alone; he's a Reviewer:
By such vile trash he gets his bread;
And for that reason, soyez sure,
He well deserves a broken head.
A Flea out of a blanket shaken,
A bloody-minded sinner,
Upon a Tailor's neck was taken,
Marauding for a dinner.
The Flea attempted a defence;
The damage was so small,
That the offence
Was next to none, or none at all;
And furthermore, to save his life,
Pleaded his children and poor wife.
That's not the case, the Judge reply'd,
The harm is small, 'tis not deny'd;
You did your worst, and had your fill:
Die then, said he,
Unrighteous Flea,
Not for the deed; but for the will.
91

FABLE XI.

An Eagle pick'd up a young Lamb,
Carelessly sporting by her Dam,
Too feeble to protect and guard her:
Aloft you might have seen her swing,
Just like a Lamb on a hook-ring,
Swinging suspended in a larder.
The bird kept mounting to the sky,
Till, like a paper-kite,
Lessen'd each instant to the eye,
He vanish'd out of sight.
A Jack Daw on a steeple top,
First taking a delib'rate hop,
Resolv'd to try what he could do;
Resolv'd the Eagle to excell,
Down, like a bird of prey, he fell,
To seize, and carry off, the Ewe:
His feet entangled in the wool,
Neither Jack's wings nor paper-skull
Could rescue him from his mishap.
92

A Shepherd, summon'd by John's noise,
Took him, and, to divert his boys,
Trimm'd him, and gave him a fool's cap.
Now, Jack, said he, now, if you will,
Fancy yourself an Eagle still.—
So have I seen, you know the place,
A Coxcomb, with a Jack Daw's wit,
Rise, with a pert unmeaning face,
To emulate the Eagle Pitt;
As fit to speak or to reply,
As Æsop's Tortoise was to fly;
Struggle and strain to be distinguish'd,
Floundering and stammering evermore,
Then drop, eternally extinguish'd
In one contemptuous farewell roar.
'Tis pertness makes Jack hop and chatter;
Pertness makes all weak people weaker;
Nothing but courage, strength, and matter,
Can make a thunder-bearing speaker.
93

FABLE XII.

Sucking his paws for his diversion,
A Bear, a huge mis-shapen mass,
Beheld a Fox, with great aversion,
Picking the bones of a dead Ass.
I never touch the dead, said Bruin,
Nor break their sacred rest, like you,
To whom destruction and dire ruin,
For such a wicked act, is due.
With a sly grin, the Fox reply'd,
My learned Friend, we differ wide;
Pray heaven, that you and all your kin
Would take a fancy to such fare!
To eat the dead is no great sin,
It is the living you should spare.
Your piety I understand;
You, Sir, and all your brethren, chuse
To fit yourselves with those at hand,
Rather than wait for dead folks shoes.
Happy are they that have no dealings
With Bears of nice and tender feelings!
94

Says Crito the benign:
Crito would sooner lose his head
Than vent his spleen
By speaking evil of the dead.
Crito, you talk and look profoundly,
But pr'ythee, with that heart of steel,
Revile the dead, and maul them soundly;
Flea none but those that cannot feel.
Your cruel pastime, Junius, cease:
Had you been just to honour and to fame,
Had you let Virtue sleep in peace,
And lash'd those only that are dead to shame;
I should have cry'd, why let him slash,
I like both Junius and his plan;
None but a knave need fear his lash,
For Brutus is an honourable man.
95

FABLE XIII.

A serpent sly,
With thoughtful head and watchful eye,
Had got out of a thousand scrapes,
Either by wriggling or back-sliding,
By circumvention or by gliding;
In short, in many shapes.
Without the least pretence
To consequence or common sense,
With volubility indeed,
The tail, affecting to be great,
Envied the head her judgement-seat,
And tried to take the lead.
Some members openly dissented;
Some were won over, some afraid;
The major part at last consented,
The head was shamefully betray'd.
Without an eye, a nose, an ear,
Without the semblance of a brain,
96

Without a grain of wit or fear,
Madame la Queue began her reign,
And thus equipp'd began her ramble,
Tearing and scratching the poor Snake;
But though she passed through thorn or bramble,
She wheel'd at every stone or stake;
'Twas that by which she was preserv'd,
By flexibility alone,
Those tails have always been observ'd
Most flexible that have least bone:
They yield to any slight impression;
Whereas an obstinate stiff rump
Maintains her ground, and keeps possession,
And moves for neither shove nor thump
The head, that had not slept a wink,
Caught her at last fast in a chink;
With sanguine eyes and pallid hue,
La Tête advanc'd steady and clear,
Came round, and disengag'd La Queue,
And made her fall into the rear.—
97

When they are first that should be last,
It shall be now as in times past,
When they, that were ordain'd to trail,
Presume to take the lead and guide,
They must return and be the tail,
Or be cut off and laid aside.
98

FABLE XIV.

A fox contriv'd, tho' lock'd and barr'd,
—Contrivance was the Fox's trade—
To steal into a Farmer's yard,
A la sourdine, by escalade;
With appetites wicked and loose,
Improv'd by travelling and art,
He suck'd the blood out of a Goose,
Ravish'd a Hen, and broke her heart.
To put an end to these lewd courses,
Before the caitiff was aware,
Surrounding him with all his forces,
The Farmer caught him in a snare.
He studied till he crack'd his brains,
The writers of those times relate,
To find out penalties and pains,
To suit his cruelty and hate;
Revenge will help you at a pinch,
E'en when your parts begin to fail.
99

To make Volpone die inch by inch,
He tied a fire-brand to his tail.
The Fox ran straight to Hodge's corn,
And caus'd as great a conflagration,
As when Wilkes came and blew his horn,
That, like the last trump, rous'd the nation:
Turn'd out of doors with an intention
To get him basted well, and roasted.
What did they get by their invention?
Get! Why they got him nicely toasted.
With Bills of Rights to his tail tied,
With red-hot Humphry too he came,
And more combustibles beside,
That set all Brentford in a flame.
The ruin spread, and made such haste,
For all the engines they employ'd,
The neighbouring towns were soon lay'd waste,
And Middlesex was quite destroy'd:
The flames reach'd London; but anon
The wind chop'd round, or London too had gone.
100

Both these examples are complete;
I wish some folks would learn from hence
To know that no revenge is sweet,
Without a little common sense.
 

Humphry Cotes.

101

FABLE XV. THE PETITIONERS FOR A DISSOLUTION OF THE PEAR TREE.

A pear-tree fell into disgrace,
Exhausting all its strength in leaves,
An idle occupant of space,
A shelter, and a den for thieves,
For birds, perpetually merry,
As long as there was plumb or cherry,
The Orchard, in an ill condition,
Complain'd to Colin they were plunder'd;
To their long grumbling petition,
He only shook his head and wonder'd;
But took at last a resolution,
To cut the useless Pear-tree down.
This was a right of dissolution,
Inherent clearly in the Clown.
Colin in short the ax apply'd,
And made a rupture in the Tree;
When lo! there issued from its side
In streams, the labours of the Bee.
102

As Henry the Eighth replied,
Sweetheart—Good Catharine, he cried,
You go, said he, at a fine rate;
I vow, you're in a pleasant vein:
Continue in this humour, Kate,
The birds and you shall both remain.
How could they ever sing so sweet,
If our poor birds had naught to eat?
Remain, said he; our humours suit,
Your honey overpays their fruit.
103

FABLE XVI. THE WHEELS OF GOVERNMENT.

A team of Oxen fat and fair,
Resign'd to every Bumkin's goad,
With little feeling and less care,
Were marching with a heavy load.
During the march, the Wheels alone
Cry'd out, and made a grievous moan.
Pleas'd with the hint, Cæsar turn'd round:
My Lord, said he, this is good ground;
Faction makes all that noise and rumbling:
The People, that bear all the weight,
That drag the waggon of the state,
March, like the Oxen, without grumbling.
Faction applies not to the wheels,
That go so heavily and lag on,
Replied the Keeper of the Seals,
Faction does not retard the waggon:
The reason then they go so ill,
Is want of grease, not want of will.
104

The K---'s friends must be duly paid,
The wheels of Government want greasing;
Business of course must be delay'd,
And cause the noise that's so displeasing.
105

FABLE XVII.

A fragrant Rose, in vernal bloom,
Close by a pensive Myrtle grew;
A melancholy jealous gloom
Darken'd the Myrtle's native hue.
O happy Rose! Myrtilla cry'd,
Thy sweets unrivall'd yet by art,
Fairest of flowers, she said, and sigh'd,
Thy blushes warm and win the heart.
Whilst all conspire to fan thy pride,
To me, like a neglected maid,
Attending joyless on a bride,
Nought but cold compliments are paid.
The Rose reply'd, Myrtilla cease;
Why will you envy me my day?
Why will you interrupt your peace?
You may please long, if you'll be gay.
The Rose's dower is short-liv'd praise,
Vigour is yours, and length of days.
Chloe, love Admiration less,
Love solid Truth, and Virtue more;
106

Then you will do what, I profess,
No woman ever did before.
Then Chloe, be for ever mine,
A Myrtle true, not one of those
That, like Myrtilla, sigh and pine
For all the lovers of the Rose.
107

FABLE XVIII.

A hungry Crow, lean as a stick,
Beating about his hunting ground,
To find, amongst the dead or quick,
A dinner, if it could be found,
Perceiv'd a Serpent lying basking,
This is a glorious Worm indeed!
One may dine here; there is no need,
Said he, to wait for any asking.
On which Don Corvo cock'd his tail,
And strutted in the gutter;
Resolv'd to fall to, tooth and nail,
When he had carv'd and cut her.
Instead of making a good dinner,
Or making a good hit,
Corvo, like many a foolish sinner,
Found himself miserably bit.
Too late he found out his mistake;
Passion minds nothing but the form,
Passion will seize upon a snake,
And take it for a harmless Worm.
108

This Fable in his hand, a Miser
Said to his son, 'Tis hard to tell
How many people would be wiser,
If they apply'd this Fable well;
You might have sav'd, said he, dear Will,
Many a good pound and many a pill.
The son reply'd, How folks are blind!
I find it otherwise apply'd,
It means an avaricious mind,
That never can be satisfy'd.
With hunger, toils, and danger struggling,
Till, bit for want of taking heed,
Some cunning Serpent makes him bleed,
As you were made to bleed for smuggling.
109

FABLE XIX.

A fox, with Death before his eyes,
And at his back
The Furies, with their whips and cries,
Encouraging the hellish pack,
Stood on a precipice's brink,
Having but little time to think:
Of Friends of every kind
And all resources now bereft,
Presence of mind
Was all the Fox had left.
Upon the rock he spy'd a ledge,
And on the ledge, either a bush
With thorns and brambles, or a hedge,
Where he propos'd to make a push;
He thought, if he could drop down plum,
At worst he could but lose his brush,
And scarify his bum.
Accordingly, he had the luck
To drop into the midst of all;
Where for some time he hung and stuck,
And, hanging, broke his fall;
110

But found his calculation fail,
Entirely wrong from head to tail.
The Fox was safe whilst he held fast,
But was so mangled, rent, and torn,
By Bramble and tenacious Thorn,
He left his hold at last;
Got to his journey's end, he cry'd,
With broken leg and bloody hide,
This is the way it always ends,
And so it should, and ever will,
When one lays hold of Rogues for Friends,
Trusting their honesty and skill.
If you had fallen quite from the top,
The Brambles answer'd one and all,
If you had never made a stop,
And never given us a call,
Crush'd all to pieces like an egg,
You would not have got off so well,
Nor had so good a tale to tell
About a broken leg.
To keep out of Oppression's paw,
Oblig'd to Westminster to ramble,
111

You lay fast hold upon the Law,
And hang on Lawyer Thorn and Serjeant Bramble.
When you have hung on Thorns and Briers,
I mean these keen blood-drawing Lawyers,
And hung as long as you well could,
Think not to 'scape at any rate,
Till you have left them half your blood,
And lost a limb of your estate;
On this, and only this condition,
The Law may save you from perdition.
112

FABLE XX.

Hector, a faithful Spaniel, spy'd
His nephew, by a river side,
A youth entirely free from guile,
Running, but never taking heed,
As if he took it for the Tweed,
And had forgot it was the Nile.
On which, with eager pace,
Hector set out, and gave him chace.
Prince turn'd, and ask'd, Why all this hurry?
Fearless and calm when others fear,
But, when there is no danger near,
My uncle's always in a flurry.
Mind, Prince, cry'd Hector, what I say,
You little know what traps and snares
You may fall into unawares,
If you run headlong in this way.
Old folks, said Prince, are too suspicious,
They fancy all our youthful hours
Are spent in riot and amours,
When they were young, they were so vicious:
113

But you must know I am no suitor:
So far from gallantry and courting,
Or running after idle sporting,
Know, I am running to my tutor,
Whose wise and learned conversation,
Let that suffice for your conjecture,
I do prefer, good uncle Hector,
To all the Bitches in the nation.
That instant, from his oozy bed,
A Crocodile put forth his snout,
A sludge-wrapp'd bonnet hid his head,
Entirely like a dirty clout.
From that unhappy day, said Prince,
The fatal news came by a Hound,
You know, both then and ever since,
We gave my mother up for drown'd.
But my good friend there in the mud
Has told me how that matter stood,
Which either my good friend or I,
Will tell you, uncle, by and by.
The Cubs, my brothers, have the measles,
My sisters look as thin as Weazles;
114

And our physician Doctor Curr
Declares, as sure as they're alive,
'Twould kill them but to wet their furr;
Then how the devil should they dive?
So I am going to fulfil,
To which you can have no objection,
My blessed mother's blessed will,
And study under her inspection.
I was to bring her the whole Litter;
But let them stay till they are fitter.
Said Crocodile, then let them wait,
Till they have leave of their Physician;
They must not stir at any rate,
Unless they have Dr. Curr's permission:
But if you go, said he to Hector,
The news will not so much affect her.
Now, to your mother's praise and glory,
I'll tell your uncle here her story:
Struck with the beauty of that Dame,
As on a bank she laid asleep;
Our God, the God Anubis came,
And hurry'd her into the deep.
115

Though she was married to a God,
And the sole partner of his bed,
Her cubs, which was exceeding odd,
Were always running in her head.
Anubis, willing to assist her,
In order to remove her grief,
Made a proposal to your sister
That gave immediate relief:—
To keep them near her for the future,
And to appoint me for their tutor.
Dido, said he, trust to my friend
(Our Crocodile let fall a tear),
To Pharoah, here, I recommend,
Your house, and all that you hold dear;
Believe me, he will spare no pains,
To cultivate their tender brains.
One of your sons Pharoah will find,
Close by the hill, and by and by
Pharoah will bring you your young fry,
And you'll be easy in your mind.
116

And now, said Pharoah, here I am,
You need not stand to haw and hum,
I'll soon convey you to your dam;
And Hector too, if he will come
Besides the visit to your mother,
'Tis highly worth your uncle's while
To see the fountain of the Nile,
He never will see such another.
If I had never seen your charms,
Your bonnet nor your snout at all;
I knew you by your coat of arms;
It hangs, said Hector, in our hall.
I am engag'd to my great sorrow:
As to my nephew, here, said he,
He must go back to day with me,
He may return to you to—morrow.
Pharoah, perceiving 'twas in vain
To deal with Hector in that strain,
Came forth, to Prince's great surprize,
Shewing his horrid coat of mail,
His dreadful jaws and wicked tail,
Exhibited without disguise.
117

Wheel to the left, cry'd Hector, quick;
With Crocodiles when you are dealing,
Keep them continually wheeling,
You will soon make the monsters sick.
Thus forc'd to quit the field in choler,
Pharoah return'd, and lost his scholar.
Beset with fraud on ev'ry side,
With crocodiles in every street,
'Tis dangerous, without a guide,
For youth to advance or to retreat.
In Westminster, how oft, at play,
Unguarded boys are snatch'd away!
118

FABLE XXI.

The Cavalry for cart and plough
Once on a time were much abus'd,
As badly fed and as ill us'd,
As thistle-eating Asses now.
This dietetic alteration
Was owing partly to a peace,
And partly to the great increase
Of folly like an inundation.
That is, to the increase of Hunters,
Racers for Ladies, Pads for Bunters;
Of Routs, Assemblies, and, of course,
Cuckoldom simple and alone;
And Cuckoldom in the bon ton,
Compounded with Divorce;
Which run on wheels, and swell th'account
Of Horses to a vast amount.
By this increase, it was observ'd,
And, from the great decrease of corn,
The labouring Horse was almost starv'd,
A thing not to be born;
119

And thereupon they all profess'd,
In presence of the buinham Lord,
Unless their wrongs were soon redress'd,
Their right and lawful feed restor'd,
These Carters would renounce the yoak,
The plough and cart might both stand still,
They would not move a wheel nor spoak
Against their own free will.
A headstrong Steed
Cry'd out, with indignation fir'd,
Do as your masters have requir'd;
Or, like vile rebels, you shall bleed.
Shall we be stinted in our Oats,
For base-born Cattle, such as you?
Sooner we'll help to cut your throats,
Than lose an atom of our due.
Go, scoundrels, pick yon common bare,
Your freehold, and your proper fare.
Poor Grey! reply'd one of the blacks,
This talk, methinks, is silly talk,
For one long us'd to drudge and walk,
And crouch, beneath a miller's sacks.
120

We find, in these degenerate days,
The best pack-horses are the Greys;
And furthermore, when we are dead,
Hung up, and punish'd to your mind,
The greatest slaves, at last, you'll find,
Will be the highest bred.
121

FABLE XXII. FANCY .

Struck with a block of Parian stone,
In a repository lying;
Though he had many of his own,
A sculptor could not pass it without buying.
Henceforth, he cry'd, be it my part
Thy latent, modest worth to blaze;
Say, shall I make thee, by my art,
A God, a tripod, or a vase?
Be thou a God, and, if I please,
The God whose bolts at pride are hurl'd;
Tremble, mankind, down on your knees,
Behold the Sovereign of the world!
Far as an artist's power can reach,
Jupiter, it was confess'd,
Throughout, in every thing but speech,
Divinely was express'd.
'Tis said his art went farther still,
That he was the first dupe of his own skill.
122

His work, it seems, was scarce completed,
When lo! with reverential awe,
From an imagination heated,
In his, the real God he saw.
Fix'd, like his Jupiter he stood,
Fear stopp'd the current of his blood.
Poets asleep, and poets waking,
Have also now and then been found,
And some with heads reputed sound,
Frighten'd at Gods of their own making.
And folks in love are often smitten,
Contrary to their intention,
And are as often sadly bitten
By creatures of their own invention.
You sigh for Chloe, heavenly fair,
But you must ever sigh in vain;
Chloe, whose cruel chains you wear,
Lives only in your brain.
Let fancy trace out a conceit,
And draw some beautiful deception,
Passion will catch at the deceit,
And take it under her protection.
123

'Tis done, she is your's for evermore;
Chloe, 'tis true,
Belongs to you,
But not the Chloe you adore.
Your husbands, ladies, are quite wrong,
They represent you in false lights;
The burthen of a husband's song
Is, one and all—they all are bites.
Alas! thy wife is not to blame,
There was no fallacy in Nan,
Thy injur'd wife is still the same,
Eadem semper, like queen Anne:
Serene with Nants, fat with October,
Eadem semper, never sober.
You bit yourself; had you the wit,
You would continue to be bit.
As upon clouds the varying wind,
So fancy acts upon the mind;
Blows vernal gales, and paints the skies
With angel forms that charm the eyes.
But oh! delicious, flattering gales,
Boreas is coming with his storms,
124

Black clouds, like crocodiles and whales,
Will drive away your angel forms.
Fontaine's remark is deep and sly—
We're all, says he, both age and youth,
Warm in the interest of a lye,
And cold as ice for naked truth.
Why not, if naked truth be frightful,
And fiction dress'd appear delightful?
It is a universal foible;
Fontaine is read from morn till night,
By people that take no delight
Over the Gospel or the Bible.
Fiction is like a mistress gay,
Truth like a wife. Would you, Sir, chuse
To hear dull truths day after day
Rather than fictions that amuse?
Dull, naked truth, in case of need,
I own, does well enough in bed,
For there, and only there, indeed,
Her mercury, attracts her lead.
But not enough, I have a notion,
To give the lead sufficient motion.
125

We all can magnify our ills;
It requires none, or little art,
To turn our bon-bons into pills,
Or make a bolus of a tart.
To make a sweetmeat of a pill,
Requires some fancy, and more skill.
From whence there follows, with great ease,
This truth, not easily defeated—
We may be wretched when we please,
But to be happy must be cheated.—
May all that cannot do without them,
All husbands, and all virtuous wives,
Carry their remedy about them,
And be impos'd on all their lives!
May both of them do one or t'other,
Deceive themselves, or cheat each other!
 

See Fontaine's Fables, 1745.

126

FABLE XXIII. THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN OFFENSIVE AND DEFENSIVE CUNNING.

A lion, with a wand'ring gout,
Upon his couch or bed lay roaring;
The Courtiers all stood round about,
Every God and aid imploring.
Excruciated like a martyr,
The Doctors brought a thousand slops,
To pave the way for his departure,
They pour'd them down the Lion's chops.
Of all the Courtiers that attended,
Waiting about him in a ring,
The Wolf officiously pretended
To sympathize most with the King.
Whilst we are all in such a fright,
Sir, said the Wolf, it must appear
Extremely wrong, in every light,
That your Attorney is not here.
127

My friend the Fox is much to blame,
Now that your Majesty's so ill,
To roam about killing your game,
Bound by no laws but his own will.
He is the chief lord paramount,
And one would swear your forest-laws
Were only made on his account,
To fill his guts and grease his paws.
A selfishness and inattention,
Which otherwise I should not mention:
When our salvation is at stake,
When every one should watch and pray,
When every eye should be awake,
'Tis highly criminal, I say.
I say, that such a gross neglect,
In one that has the Royal ear,
Cannot but argue disrespect,
The consequence of which I fear.
Such subjects seldom, by design,
Stop at the disrespectful line.
At his return the Fox was told
How handsomely his friend had serv'd him;
128

His spite at me is very old,
Says Master Fox, I have observ'd him.
Only because I go a fowling,
Am rich, and entertain my friends;
Whilst he, for very hunger howling,
Is fit to eat his fingers ends.
Volpone that instant ran to court,
Salutes the Wolf quite frank and hearty;
The Monarch cry'd, Had you good sport,
Sir Reynard? who was of your party?
Your Majesty, says the Attorney,
Is misinform'd about my journey.
That I was hunting is most true,
Making the strictest perquisitions,
Amongst the Magi and Physicians,
To find a remedy for you.
When your Gout's fix'd, or quite remov'd,
Then, Sir, my care and pious zeal,
For you, and for the common-weal,
Will be acknowledg'd and approv'd.
In the mean time I must proceed
To tell my sovereign Lord his cure;
129

His royal heart, I know, will bleed,
I feel myself what he'll endure.
'Tis the advice of a wise Hermit,
A recipe I cannot term it,
Of a profound and learned Boar,
Whose hermitage is in a wood,
Who pores and studies evermore,
And studies only to do good.
A Wolf must presently be got,
In such a case it is no sin,
Flay him alive, and piping hot
Wrap the King up in the Wolf's skin.
Thus, Sir, if you will be directed,
Your pains will quickly be abated,
The morbid matter be ejected,
And health and vigour reinstated.
The Lion, rising from his seat,
Order'd the Wolf to rest content,
To lie down prostrate at his feet,
And patiently wait the event.
That done, he call'd his Surgeons in;
Flay me, said he, that Wolf completely,
130

Flay him alive, but flay him neatly,
Or you may spoil his honour's skin.
The brains of Wolves, as some report,
Are in the grinders of the brute;
Contrivance is not the Wolf's fort;
Beasts without scent ought to hunt mute;
Their howling spreads such an alarm,
They very seldom do much harm.—
Had the Wolf let the Fox alone,
Had he not forc'd him to contrive,
He might have sav'd his skin and bone,
He would not have been flay'd alive.—
To try his cunning and his art,
A would-be minister of State,
Dup'd by his own malicious heart,
Now and then meets with the same fate.
May all that follow the Wolf's trade
In the same coin be always paid!
131

FABLE XXIV. THE MOLE.

With intellects by nature muddy,
A Mole kept moiling under ground,
Liv'd like Dun Scotus, in his study,
And got the name of The Profound.
At length by labouring and boring,
Amongst the blind and the benighted,
And by continually poring,
He was accounted second-sighted,
Thoroughly vers'd in every part
And mystery of the black-art.
In short, the studies of the blind
Are always of the occult kind.
As clear as you can see at noon
He saw, according to report,
What folks were doing in the Moon
And were undoing about Court.
Such was the Doctor's great renown,
All kinds of people, young and old,
132

Came and address'd the velvet gown,
Eager to have their fortunes told.
His mother, a discreet old dame,
Knew well the genius of the youth;
She was not such a dupe to Fame
To take all her reports for truth.
Down she descends, without a rap,
And finds him about half awake,
Just in that studious kind of nap
That your great students often take.
Mother, said he, by all that's bright,
I saw you tripping o'er the plain;
What a fine thing is second-sight,
A fine illuminated brain;
I knew you, mother, well enough;
I heard your step an hour ago,
And smelt the fragrance of your ruff,
As I was studying below.
That you, said she, were always blind,
Was not a point that wanted clearing;
But now, alas! I also find,
You've neither feeling, smell, nor hearing.
133

When you set up to botanize,
I prov'd, to cure you of your folly,
You could not judge, by your own eyes,
Between a Thistle and a Holly.
But when you talk of second-sight,
Let your internal light so shine,
That not one soul shall by that light
Find out a meaning or design.
Therefore, to keep your reputation,
Few words are best, my learned son;
Avoid all kind of conversation—
If you converse you are undone.
They may consult you, if they will,
But always keep in the same walk,
Keep studying and conjuring still,
Let all your talk be conjuring talk.
For few folks pay, with a good grace,
For any thing they understand;
Nonsense is quite another case,
'Tis the best trade throughout the land:
Else how should doctors fare so well,
And other trades that I could tell?
134

FABLE XXV. The KING and the COBLER.

A cobler, in a sorry plight,
Chang'd his profession, and turn'd Quack,
Shut up his stall, and took his flight,
With his whole fortune on his back.
From mending shoes, to a Physician,
Or to a mender of the state,
Is no such violent transition,
Nor an old tale quite out of date.
An orator that speaks off hand,
A speaker for the public good,
Is not oblig'd, I understand,
To make himself be understood:
But if his speeches bring him pelf,
You're sure he understands himself.
The Cobler did not speak like Nestor,
Whose words fell soft as flakes of snow,
Nor like Thersites, the old jester,
But like some orators we know.
135

His oratory cost him nought,
His lungs were made of cobler's leather,
The words ran off as quick as thought,
Rapid and clutter'd all together;
A kind of hurricane oration,
A whirlwind, with an inundation.
Or like a rapid roaring torrent,
Full of confusion and disasters,
With cattle swimming down the current,
And fishes laying in the pastures;
Cottages, houses, meadows, wood,
Standing in water or in mud.
Speaking was not his surest card,
The best was of his own invention;
It was an antidote to guard
Against all poison you could mention.
Its fame was spread through every quarter,
And all folks drank it like Tar-water.
God bless his Majesty; the King,
Like other folks, had got a cold,
On which the Courtiers in the ring
Observ'd that some folks were grown bold.
136

From thence it went through every rout,
In whispers, whisper'd very low,
The King was poison'd, without doubt,
By poison that would poison slow.
The King was speedily appriz'd
Of what folks said, and all folks thought,
And by the Cabinet advis'd
To take the Cobler's antidote.
He would have taken it, I fear,
Had it not been for a wise Seer.
Sir, what your ministers advise,
Suppose the fact be true, indeed,
Said he, may be extremely wise;
But let them on sure ground proceed.
Order the Doctor to appear,
And then I'll make this matter clear.
The Cobler was directly call'd,
A glass of water stood prepar'd,
The cobling Doctor stood appall'd,
The King and all the Courtiers star'd.
Take, said the Seer, this glass and view it:
Doctor, said he, if you're so clever,
137

To take this potion, and subdue it,
Your fame and fortune's fix'd for ever.
That it is poison is most true,
The worse, the deadlier the draught,
The greater honour will be due
To your alexipharmic craft.
Now, Doctor, you must shew your skill;
Whip them off clean, and make your will.
The Cobler fell upon his knees:
I own, said he, my want of knowledge,
And also own that my degrees
Were taken at the Coblers college:
For want of practice, and from hunger,
I turn'd a counter-poison monger.
Let it not cause the least alarm,
I'll answer for it with my blood,
It can do no one any harm,
But may do fanciful folks good.
In short, 'tis neither more nor less,
'Tis my own water, I confess.
Then, turning to the King, the Seer
Said, pray Sir, ask your good friends here,
138

What their advice was built upon,
What they could mean, what were their views,
To let you trust your life with one
That none would trust with their old shoes.
So long betray'd, so long deceiv'd,
The King reply'd, I'm truly griev'd.
These rogues, that gave themselves such airs,
That made bad worse, are fairly trapp'd;
These coblers shall be kick'd down stairs,
Turn'd out, and all be soundly strapp'd.
Sir, said the Seer, after their flogging,
Pray give me leave to make a motion,
That every one shall take a noggin
Of Doctor Strap's salubrious potion;
'Twill either prove a mild emetic,
A gentle purge, or diuretic.
Mind, Doctor, cry'd the King, and laugh'd,
Do you take care that every man
Drink the King's health in a full can,
And pay you for your cordial draught.
Now, said the King, I am quite fast,
All kind of menders I have try'd;
139

The menders of the other side
Cobbled exactly like the last.
When my two doctors disagree,
To drive out both, with resolution
To trust to a good constitution
And temperance is best for me.
141

FABLE XXVI. THE INDEPENDENT OXEN AND THE GRAND ALLIES.

Four powerful Oxen, fat as bacon,
One weigh'd a hundred stone at least,
As brave, for all he was a capon,
As Captain Bull, at a bull-feast;
I mean a Bull with his young bride,
And her bride-maidens, by his side.
These Oxen never could be parted,
Either by foes, or stress of weather;
They neither fear'd, flinch'd, nor started,
When all their horns were clubb'd together:
Even the Lion's roaring pride,
With all his terrors, they defy'd.
Whoever had contriv'd to fat 'em,
Their buttocks look'd so plump and nice,
The Lion fain would have been at 'em,
The Lion long'd for a good slice:
142

But he had sense enough to know,
They did not wear their horns for show.
As to the Lion's knowledge-box,
His headpiece was not worth a rush;
The Lion's chancellor, the Fox,
Had far more knowledge in his brush.
Jackall was sent, the Fox's friend,
To bid the chancellor attend.
A Fox is not a royal treat,
And therefore Reynard might rely on,
Unless he had nothing else to eat,
The word and honour of a Lion.
The Fox perceiv'd, by Jack's report,
Deliver'd with a savoury smell,
That peace and plenty reign'd at court,
That the King's stores were furnish'd well.
On which he set out with Jackall,
Obedient to the Lion's call.
Treated with a most gracious smile,
Instead of a most hearty meal,
They both were thank'd, in the old style,
For their great loyalty and zeal.
143

The royal paw of course was kiss'd,
And Jack purveyor was dismiss'd.
Fox, said the King, weigh well this matter—
Four Oxen are encamp'd hard by,
There never were four eunuchs fatter,
Nor any eunuchs half so sly:
Bestir yourself, my learned chief,
Contrive to put these friends asunder,
If you have any love for beef,
Or any love for lawful plunder.
The fat tid-bits, the choicest meat,
Their lights and livers, tongues, and hearts,
Fall to your Lordship by escheat,
With all their tripes and inward parts.
To work goes Reynard with his brains,
Finds out, and thus harangues our cattle:
The greatest sovereign of the plains,
Offers you peace, or deadly battle.
I am the Lion's plenipo,
His gracious intent I know;
His Majesty had rather far
You should chuse peace, for your own sakes;
144

Whoever is dispos'd for war
Should know the task he undertakes.—
Are you prepar'd to bid defiance,
Against so powerful an alliance?
The King will march with his allies,
Tigers and Leopards in his pay,
With wolves of an enormous size,
Tartars, that only fight for prey;
Unless you banish from your states
That insolent enormous beast,
A brute that every creature hates;
That only lives to cram and feast.
'Tis your own interest, depend on't,
'Tis obvious to common sense;
Declare yourselves quite independent,
Banish your tyrant far from hence.
Extend your trade, encrease your food—
All the King's views are for your good.
By tyranny and usurpations,
To what a bulk the monster's grown!
Whilst you, by bars and limitations,
Must be reduc'd to skin and bone.
145

Many, with looks profound and wise,
To cunning fall a sacrifice;
And thus their chief, by threats and art,
Was driven out and forc'd to run;
Their wisest head, and stoutest heart,
They lost at once, and were undone:
For when their main support was gone,
All four were pick'd up one by one.
Reader, perhaps you are not able
To mark the Actors in the fable:
I do not know, myself, the Fox,
But England is the monstrous Ox:
If you can't guess the other three,
You'll never be inform'd by me.
The Lion is—you'll not guess soon,
A royal house—house of Baboon—
The grand Baboon of Monkey-land
Has the whole house at his command.
147

A FRAGMENT OF AN EPIC POEM.

BOOK IV.

Musæum, ante omnes, medium, nam plurima turba,
Hunc habet, atque humeris extantem suspicit omnes
Dicite Fælices Animæ, Tuque Optime vates
Quæ Regio Anchisen, quis habet Locus? illius ergo
Venimus, et magnos Erebi tranavimus amnes.

148

ARGUMENT.

The hero applies to a sorceress, called a Spey-Wife—she informs him of what is necessary for him to do to accomplish his desire of visiting the Infernal Regions, conducts him, blindfold, to the brink of a deep pit near the Spey, called the Witches hole; where he is to remain upon his knees during the Magic Rites—Incantation—Instruction—Voyage to Hell—The Paradise of Blessed Fools.

149

[OMITTED]
Evening came on, and with the setting sun
The rites were ended, and the charm was done.
The Beldam Spey-wife bade the Hero rise,
And bade him take the bandage from his eyes.
All is prepar'd, your equipage is ready;
Speed you my son, she said, be bold and steady.
The moment that he saw, where he was led;
His head forsook him, like a moon-struck head,
And, as a roosted turkey, staring drops,
His head quite lost, into a Fox's chops,
The chief fell headlong down the vast profound,
Nor felt himself, before he felt the ground;
Then felt at once 'twas hell; but knew no more
How he came there than Dives did before.
150

[OMITTED] [OMITTED] Treading the dreary waste, with feet unbless'd,
His shoulders mounted high above the rest,
He spied, amidst a crew of perjur'd dead ,
Old Samuel, shaking his Colossean head;
Filmer before, Sacheverell in the rear,
With unbelieving David , and Shebbeare;
St. John pass'd by, and Prior laughing loud,
Pointing to Paul , with Dashwood in the crowd;
Bolingbroke wheeling stopp'd, and with surprise
Cried out, By G---, I scarce can trust my eyes!
Mat, turn about, as sure as we are damn'd,
There's M---y, kissing Dr. Samuel's hand.
151

How could the quibbling casuist contrive
To cheat our master , and get here alive?
The Reverend Chieftain of the Law, you'll guess,
Had reach'd the Ancient Chieftain of the Press.
To Samuel, thus, the chief address'd his speech,
“Spirit of Night, profound didactic Leech;
And, ye attendants, say; you know too well,
Where dwells your King that sent you all to hell?”
To whom the Seer reply'd, with bellowing voice,
“Here we have room enough; but little choice,
As upon earth; in this sequester'd vale
We have no certain dwelling, but a jail:
Thither, at certain periods, we repair,
At certain periods wander here and there.
'Tis neither East nor West, nor North nor South,
We live as heretofore, from hand to mouth.
152

M---d go on, you have not far to go,
Down in that bottom lies the seat of woe.
There you will find the Sovereign of your heart,
Your King, still acting the same drivelling part.”
“But, says the Doctor, with a Cynick sneer,
What do you think of our grand landscapes here?
I have seen just such scenes up in your North,
Is not that solemn river like your Forth?
The lofty banks of Forth, that so delight us,
Are in the taste of these, along Cocytus.”
This said, the Chief, without the least reply,
Bowed, and pursued his journey with a sigh .
153

Joyless, he labour'd, through the barren sand,
Oft stroak'd his wig, and often pinch'd his band:
Arriv'd—the Porter hail'd him with a grin,
The gates flew open, and he enter'd in.
The first he fix'd his eyes upon was Laud,
With pontiff curses swearing like a bawd,
Leading the Martyr Charles through thick and thin,
Scourg'd for ten thousand years, and scourg'd by Prynne.
Stenny he saw, along with daddy James,
Tied back to back, and both impail'd in flames.
His other Paramours, all in a row,
Were all impail'd, up to the waist in snow.
And farther on, continuing his rout,
He saw a black and dismal head peep out,
Out of a boiling cauldron, through the smoke,
Just like the head, out of the Royal Oak.
Two figures next approach'd, in monkish weeds,
Muttering fantastic prayers, and dropping beads.
The two last James's, walking with bead-rolls,
Condemn'd to pray in vain for all their souls;
154

For ages doom'd, in that devoted pound
To walk, incessantly, their foolish round.
Hook'd by the ribs, on a high gibbet, hung
Kirk; still retaining his audacious tongue,
Cried, as they pass'd, 'tis certain—tho' 'tis hard,
The prayers of fools can never fly a yard.
Nothing can ever make these blockheads wise—
How do you think that yours can mount the skies?
Arm'd with credentials from the Cocoa-tree
Down dropp'd the chief upon his bended knee;
Father and son both eyed him with dismay,
Both of them cross'd themselves, and walk'd away.
A dreadful cave now struck his soul with awe,
Here were the baleful caverns of the law.
Blue lightnings issued forth, and from within
His ears were harrow'd with terrific din,
Chains, lashes, creaking wheels, and crackling bones,
Yells, horrid shrieks, and everlasting groans.
Before the entrance two grim monsters lay,
With many monster cubs, in snarling play,
155

Chicane the dam, and rapine was their sire,
Their mouths foam'd black, their eyes were balls of fire:
Hell-hounds, the likest to a wolf in make,
A lion's paw, their tail a hooded snake ;
The Chief mov'd forward, till advancing nigh,
Bristling they rous'd and gave a hideous cry.
His staff disclos'd he wav'd with awful nod,
Jaw-lock'd they gaz'd upon the golden rod,
Loud thunder shook the adamantine jail,
The whole pack crouch'd and Rapine wagg'd his tail.
A hollow voice broke from the cells below:
“Stop, Mortal, Stop: Ah, whither would you go!
These are the endless labyrinths of hell,
Relentless vengeance reigns through every cell.”
'Tis not the voice of warning from a friend,
'Tis a damn'd Lawyer warns you of his end.
156

Amidst eternal torments from his den,
Preaching unwillingly, to long-rob'd men.
Artful he was, invading, but not brave,
A willing hireling, but a timid slave.
Eagle-eyed Judgement, parts almost divine,
Learning that flow'd from an exhaustless mine.
Hero in Science, to its utmost stretch,
Bacon that Hero was—and I that Wretch.
I could besides quote many a serious case;
Would you were here, to quote them in my place:
After this warning that can never be;
Farewel for ever—If you think of me.
Follow Cocytus up the realms of night,
The mournful waters fly the verge of light.
The plaintive streams diminish all the way,
Divide and languish at the sight of day.
Lost amongst frightful rocks its source you'll see,
Within the dolorous region of Ennui.—
Terrible lesson this—Bacon indeed!
Think of you, said the Chief!—Yes—I had need.
The ways of Justice here pass our vain skill;
God's Justice is his own unerring will.
157

What's that to you? said Bacon; Idle prate!
Your wills are crooked—but the laws are straight.
He felt the stroke, and, like the stricken deer,
Turn'd round, stole off, and dropp'd a painful tear.
Silent he wound along the rueful coast,
And heard the moans of many a wretched ghost,
Wand'ring they walk'd, or fix'd in horror stood,
Nail'd on the banks of that lamenting flood.
Thousands he met, returning to their graves,
Wash'd every night in those disastrous waves.
Far to the right a peep of day appear'd,
Leaving the rocks behind, to that he steer'd.
A boundary stood there—a blasted tree,
Hell goes no farther—and there ends Ennui.
The Chief press'd on with unremitting speed,
And now in day-light thought he saw the Tweed,
Working its weary way through wide domains,
Where merciless Ennui for ever reigns.
158

Through sandy tracts and sherifdoms of fen,
Border'd with peat-moss far as eye can ken,
Where spiteful Boreas shews his utmost spite,
And whistling gathers every poison'd blight.
'Twas not the Tweed, the semblance mock'd the Chief;
Ideal witchcraft—seat of mental grief,
Where every object has its proper pain,
To tire the eye, to rack or mope the brain.
Close by the shore he saw in bonnets blue
Many a rebel chief that once he knew;
Fain would have stopp'd them, but they all retir'd,
Save one, whose penance was almost expir'd.
He seem'd an antient Piper, by his geer,
His port was stately, and his eye severe.
A lyre, appendant to his bagpipe hung,
And thus the Northern Orpheus said or sung:
“Out of a roguish king, against all rule,
I undertook to make a learned fool;
And here I am, sent hither, as you see,
For having made him—what he was—all Three.
159

His royal inclinations were his own,
And all his vice—for virtue he had none.
I am Buchanan, this is my reward,
Make no reply; but listen to your Bard.
A while upon the beech I'll take my stand,
Till I explain the wonders on each hand.
We on the left enclos'd within those shoals
Dwell in the country of perturbed souls.
Hither transported for a certain space,
The restless spirit finds no resting place.
And here the jaded traveller resorts,
Whose days are lost in brothels or in courts.
The midnight gambler, when his race is run,
That lives undoing, and that dies undone.
Wild Mountaineers, who neither plow nor sow,
Who wish no greater curse to their worst foe .
160

The lawless spoiler, and the licensed cheat,
That eat the bread of outrage and deceit.
Here we must stay till we have cleared our score,
Our penance ended—we are wafted o'er;
Mean while, insuperable waves divide
The Paradise, where blessed fools reside.
We see the Land of Pleasure with despair,
And curse the stream that keeps us where we are,
With anguish view the happiest of Isles,
Where Plenty laughs, and every Season smiles,
Like birds of passage with instinctive sail,
There venial sinners fly with every gale;
Even ambition, avarice, and pride,
Provided Folly only was their guide.
The fool who starv'd himself, and meant no ill,
May starve in Paradise, or take his fill.
Those who were fond of rank and royal show,
Are shadowy Kings and empty Peers below.
All Kings, all Statesmen, have some foolish leaven,
The best come there before they are fit for heaven.
None go directly to that holy place,
But Ideots, Infant Babes, and Babes of Grace.
161

Sins of complexion, fashion, and skin deep,
Arrive per saltum, following like sheep.
But mighty sinners come not with such ease,
They must come far about, through dreadful seas;
The vainest creatures the most harmless are,
The poorest poet is the vainest far;
God gives the croaking frog, like these vain things,
Some satisfaction, whilst he thinks he sings.
And there the Poet sings, the Lover wooes,
And his warm turtle spreads her tail and cooes.
Many a Debauchee you think in hell
There meets a hearty welcome, and fares well:
Tyrant of beings, worthier than himself,
The Squire pursues, like a malicious elf,
The ghosts of weeping stags and timorous hares,
And for the souls of innocents lays snares:
Just the same noisy fool he was above,
That men despised, and only brutes could love.”
Buchanan finish'd, pointing to a boat,
Gave a few hints, and vanish'd quick as thought;
Close to the shore a dogged boatman plied,
Cover'd with Tartan rags in squalid pride;
162

The Chieftain lifted up his hand in air,
He knew old Lovat, and he knew his fare:
Simon, invited by the Scotch bawbee,
Push'd his boat through the mud, and took his fee.
I knew you, said the boatman, at first sight;
I see your travels have not chang'd you quite.
You are a judge, now judge between us two,
Which of us is the worthiest, I or you;
You sent me here—I know it gave you pain,
I transport you, as much against the grain.
Troth, maister M---y, if I had the power,
You should go back, and finish the grand tour.
Or else, amuse yourself, if you thought good,
Amongst your friends on this side of the flood.
Taunting and gibing, Simon stemm'd the tide,
And landed M---y on the envied side.
With Talbot, Hardwicke, Pelham, in his train,
And ancient Peers, without a single Thane.
The Second George was walking on the key,
And view'd the sullen marshes of Ennui.
163

He saw the Clans distinctly with his glass,
Like Mews and Sea Gulls, wailing on the Bass .
Balmarino, said George, Cameron I know;
I never hated any gallant foe:
All would have scaped, had they been only mine;
Would I could waft them o'er, and pay their fine.
Whigs have been sometimes cheats, and often tools,
Tories were always knaves, and Jacks but fools.
Hardwicke replied, “Sir, Nothing is more true;”
T*l*t rejoined, “If you'll except a few”
“Supposing,” Stanhope said, “This can be done,
In which of these exceptions is your son?”
“My Lord,” said Talbot, “both of us were bit;
I, as a humble patriot, you a wit:
You could not make a genteel rogue of Phil;
Nor I an honest Whig of graceless Will.
I grant he kennels with a knavish pack,
But hope and think my son is but a Jack.
Yon rebels were not trapp'd in Folly's snare;
'Twas treachery and falsehood brought them there.
164

No sooner set ashore than in a scrape,
Placed in full view—no chance for an escape;
Confused the Chief advanc'd—and all the while
Kept up a constant fire of bow and smile.
“Whoever thought to see that Gownman here?
Tell him,” said George, “to drop into the rear.”
“How brisk my uncle looks!” said Jack , “how young!”
George gave a Pugh!—and Jack put out his tongue,
The King had turn'd from that contrasted scene
To sprightly meads and lawns for ever green:
Wood-waving mountains, sunny sheep-clad hills,
And valleys tinkling with perpetual rills.
Not far from thence a terrace lifted high,
With antique towers arrests the ravish'd eye:
Proud Windsor rush'd into the Chieftan's mind,
Thither they hied—and left the Chief behind.
Despised by George, suspected by the best;
Dreaded by some, and hated by the rest.
165

Close by the Royal Dome the King stopp'd short,
And said, “My Lords, you hear the late report—
Lyttelton's come—If so—pray, heaven, he bring,
Good news from honest England, and its King:
Your brother's not yet come—Fame says he's dead;
Pelham, what think you?—Pelham shook his head.
“I fear,” he answer'd, after a short pause,
“If there's bad news my brother was the cause.
You, Royal Sir, are not without some blame,
Knowing their hopes, and knowing whence they came.
You, Sir, yourself, was once the rising sun,
And saw what lengths ambitious courtiers run.”
“Pelham,” replied the King, “I own 'tis true;
All this, and more than this, Alas, I knew.
I saw with pleasure, when I ceased to reign,
My people soon would wish me back again.”
The Monarch then, it was his usual hour,
Slipp'd from them, hurrying to Valmoden's bower.
M---y, though humbled, not without disdain
Travers'd the lawns, and saunter'd down a lane;
166

On each side, arbours, alleys, and alcoves,
And dark recesses for the modest loves.
A noble matron , double-gilt with grace,
Attends, and does the honours of the place.
The secrets of that walk no tongue must tell,
There silence dwells; there only fit to dwell.
Just at the turn he stopp'd to take a view,
A building seem'd to offer something new;
A mansarde roof, a contour light and trim,
Like a Financier's toy or Marquis whim.
Placed in a plain, in flowery mazes scrawl'd,
The plain a sweeping curve with horn-beams wall'd,
Sprinkled with figur'd plots, where statues stray,
Where urns and vases rest and fountains play.
The doors cry out, the windows all proclaim,
Vive le Roy—from France the fancy came.
The garden-gate, said he, cries out Encore;
The lines above, perhaps, may tell us more
Inscription light, and airy like the rest;
Trick'd up in airy French, and thus express'd:
167

Entrez, aimable fou, soiez content et gai,
Ici, l'on est content, et plus fou qu'à Fernai:
Nous chantons, nous buvons, faisons des vaudevilles,
A nos cotés toujours tenons nos jolies filles:
Notre joyeux concert, pour nous, est assez beau
Nous n'envions aucun qui psalmodie en haut,
Ni saint ni sainte vierge, équipage inutile;
Ici point de pucelle; et point de difficile.
Voulez vous attrister votre vin, mes amis?
Allez à cet hotel, justement vis-à-vis,
Des filles fuiez-vous l'impertinent ramage?
Allez, apprenez là, que c'est que d'etre sage,
Au Sçavoir vivre Anglois, et Scavez vous pour quoi?
S'ennivrer tristemment, c'est Scavoir vivre là.
M---y was not in cue for folks so gay,
He slouched his hat, and stepp'd across the way.
'Twas still the mart of British wit and vice,
Arthur's—but what is Arthur's without dice?
A garden, with but one forbidden tree,
Of black-leg Knowledge; all the rest were free.
168

Thankless, indifferent to all the rest,
Of all God's blessed fools they were least blest.
He pass'd unnotic'd through the maudlin gloom,
And in a corner snug studied the room.
There made these sketches—leaning on his cane,
Drawn on the Album of his fruitful brain.
Northington there!—I envy his good luck,
And C---s Y---k too!—Both of them drunk as muck.
Here I am lost—I can't conceive a bit,
What a weak instrument is human wit!
Instead of contradicting and asserting,
Bedford—grown narrative and less diverting;
Poor matter—the same manner—smart and quick,
B---d house anecdotes; and pranks of Dick .
Is that a soul that's sleeping by the fire?
Hah! honest Stee! would I could see your sire!
What pensive wight is that tracing with wine,
Like Archimedes, some sublime design?
169

I know him well, and if I judge aright,
Those lines are gibbets—his supreme delight:
The table's full of them—alive or dead
Hanging must always run in S---'s head.
Wilkes, much the liveliest of all the club,
The Wits—as flat as monumental Bub;
Bub in the chair—no more like flesh and blood,
Than the first Consul's Image, made of wood.
Our Orators blow cold—temperate at most;
No heated wind blows here from the gold coast.
O North, where is thy sting? O Gibby, say—
What are you both, but buttermilk and whey?
Tax-ridden Porter, cheated of its malt,
Or wambling, oatmeal porridge without salt.
Waddling, with pinking eyes, and head-piece loose,
St---y still gabbles, like a stubble goose.
P---'s eloquence by all that I can find,
Vanish'd, and has not left a wreck behind.
The Chief, just at that instant, raised his head,
And caught P---s eye, that almost look'd him dead.
170

Struggling—at last he started from his seat,
Awoke—and found C---n-wood a safe retreat—
Safe in his bed, in a fine breathing steam,
Refreshing, after such a feverish dream.
 

The Jacobites, that took the oaths to government.

An Epicurean Philosopher of the North, in whom were united the principles of two sects, seemingly opposite—a Pyrrhonist in Revelation; a Dogmatist in Faction, who does not believe God's word, but will take a Tory's word for any thing.

A Poet Laureat of the same name and of the same time with the present; but not the same King.

Some read his master; but our master is better; for he was certainly their master: whether he was his or no, might be guessed by his works; but could only be known by himself. It is remarkable, that those who seldom speak truth upon earth, are never permitted to lie here. No person dare speak affirmatively but from knowledge. To be obliged to speak truth must be a terrible punishment for a liar—and to none so much as a Liar ex Officio.

As every one is not endowed with the gift of discerning, nor with a taste for relishing the delicacy of an allegory, which is the soul of an heroic Poem, it will not be amiss to inform the Reader, that this laborious journey to the Infernal Regions means no more than the dry study and unpleasant drudgery of a certain science which the sublimest genius must submit to before he can reach the height of his profession—When he is at the top, and mounted upon his tribunal, he has hell in full view; for he must necessarily, like Rhadamanthus, be made acquainted with every crime and every kind of iniquity, that entitles human nature to be virtually represented in that senate.

The Cobro Capello or Coiffed-head, the most deadly of all serpents.

This is the character of all savages: the Abbé R---l speaking of the Canadians, says “Leur plus vive Imprécation contre un Ennemi Mortel, c'étoit qu'il fut réduit à labourer un Champ.” Histoire Politique et Philosophique, vol. VI. p. 14.

Bass, a famous Rock Island, near the mouth of the Forth.

Jack Moslyn.

A late Dutchess, Kingston.

Dick Rigby.

Selwin's.

Bub Dodington, lord Melcombe.

Hans Stanly.

Pitt's.

171

MONKISH EPITAPHS.

173

EPITAPH UPON ONE OF THE NOBLE FAMILY OF THE SCROPES.

[_]

TRANSLATED.

A Long farewell to Hope and Fear;
A restless traveller rests here.
Scrope's weary bones no more shall ake,
His watchful eyes no longer wake.
The head of all these plains, ah, why
Should heads so spiritual die?
(The matter in them is so small
And light, 'tis next to none at all);
Time, envious Time, shorten'd his reign,
And ne'er will shew his like again.
Religious moralist attend,
Here, and here only, toil and grief
Shall find sure comfort and relief,
And every pain and terror end.
175

EPITAPH UPON AN ABBOT.

[_]

TRANSLATED.

Here Martin keeps not to detain you,
For here he cannot entertain you,
A stricter fast than monks in high Lent;
And, stranger still, here Martin's silent.
Here he remains and will remain,
Nor e'er consent to rise again,
Though the last trumpet sounds the alarm,
And angels offer him an arm,
Or a kind Cherub spreads his wings
That like a sky-lark mounts and sings,
Unless, instead of heavenly dews
And manna, only food for Jews,
He finds pure wine, both dry and sweet,
Palpable bread and solid meat.
Freedom of speech without restriction,
Danger, reproof, or contradiction.
To shut one's mouth and hold one's tongue
Who can submit to, old or young?
177

'Tis like a lock'd up candle's end,
That frights no foe, and lights no friend.
If that's the case here he will lie
Rather than sit with mutes on high.
No place like this so well can suit
A moping chartreux, or a mute.
179

EPITAPH UPON A RECTOR.

[_]

TRANSLATED.

He whom no house, no haunt could hold,
Wand'ring like wolves from fold to fold,
Who made each house each hill and dale,
Both an asylum and a jail,
Laid by the heels and caught at last,
Is here confined in durance fast,
By land for ever, on the hoof,
By water, always water-proof.
Jocky, groom, sailor, first of jokers,
And legislator amongst smokers.
Like Moses, wrapt in clouds of smoke,
He laid down laws to hearts of oak;
A sportsman keen by land and water,
Yet never took delight in slaughter;
A fisher, like the pope, of fish,
Who never caught one single dish.
Tender to game of every sort
He shed no harmless blood in sport;
181

No plaintive widow of the wood
Mourn'd for her mate or infant-brood.
Venatic saviour, most deserving,
Not for destroying but preserving.
Not more renown'd for song and pipe
Than for a powerful fist and gripe.
He set the spoiler in the stocks,
And fell'd the poacher like an ox.
Chief of the music of the steeple
A poet amongst tuneful people,
A scribe that never miss'd a mail,
Whose letters flew as thick as hail,
That like the Sybils leaves in air,
He threw at random every where.
All his pursuits were much the same,
Much expectation, and no game:
Like father Time for ever moving,
Never improved, always improving.
All mortals that are made of clay
Proceed exactly on his way.
As anxious children waiting stand,
Then slily creep, with salt in hand,
183

To catch hedge-sparrows, larks, or quails,
If they can lay salt on their tails.
Even so, our measures, schemes, and cares,
Are oft as weak and vain as theirs.
Amongst us all, alas, how few
Have skill to catch what we pursue.
Cetera desunt.
185

EPITAPH UPON A DOCTOR.

[_]

TRANSLATED.

Here end the bleedings and the purgings
Of the ghastliest of doctor surgeons.
Vanpurge lies here, who, on living ground,
So much the shadowy king resembled,
Whene'er death met him in his round
Death turn'd out of the road and trembled;
Or seeing the glancing phantom pass
He thought he saw himself in a glass.
Both of them look'd as if their faces
Were made of weather-beaten stone,
With nought for noses but their bases,
Nought for their cheeks and chin but bone.
Instead of eyes, dark hollow sockets;
Instead of mouths, a horrid grin;
Their inside like a poet's pockets,
Space circumscribed by a leather skin.
Their trade, their instruments, the same;
Alike in all things, but the name.
187

Wonder not at the doctor's age,
Nor that he outlived the long-lived Crow,
Whom Death himself durst not engage,
Lest Death himself he should overthrow.
Death had seen many, in many a shape,
Make their escape out of his jaws,
But never once saw one escape
On whom the doctor laid his paws.
Proof against hunger, ptysick, stone,
And even the pox's poison'd shafts;
Nought could destroy this skeleton,
But his own tools or his own draughts,
Which to himself at last applied,
Vanpurge, like all his patients, died.
189

EPITAPH UPON A GENERAL.

[_]

TRANSLATED.

Here lies, for so the envious Fates decree,
All that remains of general Charles Lee,
General and chieftain, by the Grace of God,
From Thames to Don, and Wolgian Novogrod.
From Danube and the Euxine, to the Straits,
And cross the Atlantic Ocean to Hell gates.
A hardy tribune of the Yanky crew,
The only head, not crack'd entirely through.
Scourged by the Indians, buffeted, reviled,
And then adopted for a heaven-born child.
Silver Heel's son, by him named Boiling water,
Then given in wedlock to his virgin daughter;
Replete with redolent and poignant charms,
A willing captive in a captive's arms,
Loving and kind, as Antony's warm gypsey,
With all her feeling true, sober or typsey.
From their endearments and keen embraces
Were born a pair of lovely copper faces.
191

A princess, ushered by the prince her brother
Twins, like each parent, more than like each other.
Cæsar his mother's, hapless darling once,
His father's awful image, cast in bronze,
Till a vile British harlot, as fame goes,
Destroy'd the likeness, with young Cæsar's nose.
As a stern lion, dauntless from the wood,
Lashing his angry tail in sullen mood,
Surveys his trembling enemies at bay
With foot, deep-rooted, in his breathless prey.
Such was the general, in the embattled field,
The lion's sovereign confidence his shield.
The lion's horrid voice to old and young
Impress'd less terror than his dreadful tongue,
A tongue that flay'd without the least compunction.
And left the bleeding caitiff without unction.
That never lick'd nor healed the wound it gave,
That never hurt the virtuous and brave.
That, like the Russian knout, extorted groans
From bowels, hearts, and hides, as hard as stones.
Sharp as the Roman Lictor's ax and rod,
Rigid as Jove's inexorable nod.
193

He stripp'd the boaster of his borrow'd skin,
And laughing shew'd the dastard ass within,
Nor less to modest right, humane and true,
He gave back injured worth, its plunder'd due.
Him sword, nor plague, nor famine, could consume,
Nor Venus, foaming in a plaguy fume;
Nor all the accumulated rage and might
Of coward treachery and female spight.
Thus sung, exulting with prophetic mirth,
A Cambrian Bard, inspired at Charles's birth:
Intrepid Boy, go wander the world over,
Through paths untrod by any antient rover;
Despise the tyrant wrath of vengeful kings,
The vulgar's worthless praise and Envy's stings.
Like Hercules, immortal, toil through life,
Trust your own strength with all things but a wife.
Tame all, except one monster of your spouse's,
Of aspect mild as any cat that mouses;
Like modest Tabby, sporting with her prey,
Before she draws the vital blood away.
195

A horrid monster that avoids the light,
And, silent as the grave, preys the whole night.
Given first to Omphale when Juno taught her,
To quell and make Alcides weak as water.
From her derived the fatal present came,
To many a jealous wife and virtuous dame.
Dragging his tail, subdued by magic sops,
Cerberus fawn'd, and dropp'd his greedy chops.
No sop, no chain, no lock that you can put on,
Can ever tame the ravenous dumb glutton.
197

EPITAPH UPON A LIVING SUBJECT.

[_]

TRANSLATED.

Here lies the body of John H---,
Entomb'd within this castle-wall;
Impaired by time not overthrown,
Fairly subdued by Sloth alone.
Like one of Virgil's lazy cattle,
Unfit alike for peace or battle.
As snug and totally at rest
As dormice in their dormant nest.
Like souls unborn and unequipp'd,
A blank, of many a passion stripp'd.
That minds as much as these same weak ones
The threats of bishops, priests, and deacons.
And who the promises believes
Of priests and deacons and lawn sleeves,
As much as they themselves believe
All that they teach from morn to eve.
Which they are not to blame for teaching,
But those that pay them for their preaching.
199

When young, by his parish priest's assistance,
He saw great marvels at a distance;
He saw both heaven and hell below,
And also saw in heaven or hell,
But so far off they made no show,
All people that on earth do dwell,
As children lifted by the chin
See London town and all within.
But now shut up and left alone,
Like a poor toad under a stone,
Entrenched up to the teeth and nose,
He sees no more of these fine shows.
Flattering hope and soft belief,
And fear a trembling midnight thief,
From hence, long since are fled and gone,
And love no longer dwells with John.
Like tempests on a desart shore
Unheard the senates thunders roar;
Nor the king's speech, nor king together,
Delight him, he's in such bad luck,
201

More than the bell of a bell-wether,
Or a young calf that wants to suck.
Nor all his peeresses and peers,
And Lady Marys fresh or stale,
No more than wanton mares or steers,
And heifers prurient for a male.
Not even the queen, whom all admire,
Can strike one spark of genial fire.
Something from nothing cannot flow,
As every smatterer must know:
Where there's no subject, there's no story;
No care into his breast can steal,
Neither the love of fame and glory,
Nor such as gentle shepherds feel.
Like Daphne, slumbering in some bower,
Seized and kept under as she lies,
Weighed down by a resistless power,
That will not suffer her to rise;
The helpless and abandon'd virgin
Feels all hopes over of emerging.
203

In such a hopeless forlorn plight
Passive he lies, depress'd at length,
With all the dead incumbent weight,
And energy of inert strength.
Dead to the world, himself, and friend,
And dead in fact world without end,
Unless at last the god of gold,
Storming his castle and strong hold,
Where he in torpid peace within is,
Rouse him with showers and peals of guineas.
205

A ROYAL EPITAPH.

[_]

TRANSLATED.

The champion of scholastic heroes,
Solomon James, foully bewrayed,
Whose mother was as chaste as Nero's,
And fiddling was his father's trade,
Lies here, and with him lie his tools,
His king-craft, and his conjuror's staff;
His logic, chopp'd small, for the schools,
Was blown away before like chaff.
Happy the youths kept far from court,
To virtue trained, by parents fond;
Blest the old women that could sport,
And swim like otters in a pond.
For all young men that came near him
Were spoiled, within that magic ground,
And all old maids that could not swim
Must swim; or else, like cats, be drowned.
207

May he now meet his just reward,
May he each night come from the shades,
And toil all night and labour hard,
An incubus upon old maids.
And when the witches saboth comes,
May he attend the witches call,
Mumbling their spells with toothless gums,
And be the ram that rides them all.
 

King James, in his Dæmonology, says, that a devil, in the shape of a black ram, performs this office for the witches at their grand assemblies, which he describes with all the minuteness of an eyewitness.

208

EPITAPH FOR HIS GRANDSON, CHARLES II.

Immortal Henry , Great and Good,
The only King by right divine;
One drop of James's wizard blood
Spoiled every generous drop of thine!
Here lies thy grandson's wicked bones,
Never to be restored again;
His brother rests with fainted drones,
And ends, thank heaven, the Stewarts reign.
 

Henry Fourth, king of France.

212

IMITATED. A MONASTIC ELEGY.

Now silence in the woodlands reigns,
Whilst the pale Goddess of the night,
Shoots o'er the waters and the plains
A trembling and delusive light.
Illumin'd by her magic beams,
That steeple rears its solemn head,
The shadowed turf a mantle seems,
Spread o'er the mansions of the dead.
Singing her mortuary dirge,
There sits the owl till break of day,
Responsive, through the cloister'd verge,
Winds howl and drive the bat away.
213

There musing Fancy takes her stand,
The child of Genius and of Spleen,
And waves her visionary wand,
To realize her pictur'd scene.
She calls Gray's spirit from the tomb,
To take his mournful midnight round,
And sees him gliding through the gloom,
Within these favourite precincts bound.
Pursuing with her brain-mock'd eye
The circling gleam that marks his way,
And hears his lengthen'd parting sigh,
Returning to his bed of clay.
With many a love-lost maid and swain
There lies the cemetery bard,
There shall the Muse of sorrow reign
Till corn shall grow in Paul's Church-yard.
214

An old Receipt for a troublesome Disorder.

Let jealous blockheads agonize and fret,
Waste all their wealth, their study, time, and skill,
O'er wavering virtue watchful senteries set,
To keep their spouses chaste against their will.
In lofty domes enclosed and painted bowers,
With costly worship though their idols shine,
Cover'd with Orient gems in glittering showers,
They pine and sicken in their gilded shrine.
Or led in triumph through a gazing crowd,
Like Ægypt's goddess, Isis, Heifer, Queen,
That nods her golden horns in semblance proud,
But longs to sport and couch upon the green.
Make not your mate an object for parade,
A picture placed for artist eyes to view,
Or fancy-figure of a masquerade,
That pleases only whilst the fancy's new.
215

The fruits of commerce, the rewards of war,
Your riches rescued from the treacherous main,
The painful harvest of the sordid bar,
Let her preserve without your farther pain.
Let household cares employ her hands and head,
At table treat her like a vestal pure,
Make her the wife and mistress of your bed.
Believe her faithful, and you'll find her sure.
217

AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND,

UPON HEARING THAT HE WAS CANVASSING AGAINST THE NEXT GENERAL ELECTION.

Nov. 11, 1778.
Respue quod non es: tollat sua munera cerdo,
Tecum habita, et noris quam sit tibi curta supellex.
Persius, Sat. IV. v. 51.

219

'Tis easier to know, by far
What we are not, than what we are.
A man may feel without much pain,
And own he has no athletic brain;
But still will never know the fact,
If it be ricketty or crackt.
Miss may perceive, though no one taught her,
Her eyes are not of the first water;
No brilliants, but the true goose-eye
Miss in her glass will never spy;
For in her round white eyes the girl
Sees the mild lustre of the pearl.
That I am no great wit or poet
I know: the criticks do not know it.
But what I am, in spite of pride,
I know no more than my backside.
220

All know the strongest man and meekest.
And I can tell who is the weakest:
“The man that pays five thousand pound
“Unforced, and without any grumbling,
“For leave to sit in Rotten Ground
“Within a Rotten House that's tumbling:
“With further leave upon occasion,
“Either upon his legs or seat,
“To shew the sages of the nation
“The model of a fool, complete,
“In style, voice, figure, look, and action,
“Even to Garrick's satisfaction.”
This cap, whose bells to Midas ears,
Sound like the music of the spheres,
Can by no means your head-piece fit,
You only paid for leave to sit;
Now from your passion, I'm appealing
To your good sense and sober feeling.
221

You know you are not Burke nor Barré,
Ready to fly at any quarry;
You neither want the means nor skill,
But you don't know you want the will.
Without an unremitting force
Man has but half a will of course,
And none, excepting womankind,
Get what they want with half a mind.
By some repulsive power within
You are check'd the moment you begin;
Like a spring fix'd to shut a door,
That drives it back for evermore.
To fly at magpies, jays, and crows,
Is not the thing that you propose;
What you propose, you have tried before;
And, if you're wise, you'll try no more.
What must be done, then? faith, dear honey,
Do any thing—but waste your money.
I ne'er learnt aught from men of letters,
Nor school-men, school-boys are their betters:
222

The wise ones spend it not in trash,
But whip their gigs and keep their cash.
Play then, no matter with what toy,
Play within bounds, like a good boy.
223

AN EPISTLE FROM JOHN ME, ESQUIRE, TO His Excellence My Lord SELF.

—E cœlo descendit γνωθι σεαυτον.
Juv. Sat. II. v. 27.

Quid tibi vis? calido sub pectore mascula bilis
Intumuit, quam non extinxerit urna cicutæ.
Persius, Sat. V. v. 145

225

My Lord,
Whether from courtesy or grace,
Custom or patent from the King,
Your Lordship's preseance and place
To me is an establish'd thing.
Whatever titles kings devise,
I always take for current pay,
Whether their royal heads are wise,
Or only made of common clay:
And as to custom, seldom mind,
Whether it serves for any use,
We may be thankful when we find
A custom is not an abuse.
From the same sire and dam we draw
Our form and likeness to each other.
If I am wiser, common law
Assigns it to the younger brother:
226

You have more money, I more mettle,
I will not be like you, my Lord,
As we have an account to settle,
I'll pay my debts before I hoard.
I would not pay you what I owe you,
If I could cheat you without shame,
And yet I love you, though I know you;
Where is the man can say the same?
Old Flaccus took himself to task,
And old Montaigne himself unravels,
They'll shew you how, you need but ask,
They are both at hand, in all your travels.
I do not mean, that you and they
Are like the three of whom we read;
“Voila trois tetes dans un bonnet:”
Which is a Riddle, not a Creed.
If one improve at any rate,
Be it by sapience or dreaming,
Though it may seem to come too late,
I hold it not at all unseeming.
227

Were they, by their fine curtain-lectures,
In fact improv'd? that I'll not swear,
The fact rests wholly on conjectures,
If you will take their words they were.
Come, then, I'll open you my budget,
It is not like Pandora's box,
Nor North's; replete, as patriots judge it,
With the Scotch itch, and the French pox.
'Tis much more like an old wife's potion
Of Sir John Pringle's, or a charm;
Or any other anile motion,
That may do good and does no harm.
You have committed many a folly,
And told me to my face I did it;
Rather than see you melancholly
Perhaps I did not quite forbid it;
But there are follies I could name,
Some of them past all understanding.
228

Freaks which I utterly disclaim;
Pranks, none of which I had no hand in.
I drop this point, I am no stranger
To your repentance, and know why
In many points you are out of danger
Of going now so much awry.
Who made your Lordship sour and proud?
Not I; you must give me my due:
I was, and always was allow'd,
Quite the reverse, till spoil'd by you.
'Twas you, not me, that was suspicious,
Of those that never meant you ill,
When you said any thing malitious
'Twas you that spoke against my will,
When you were bouncing like a squib,
I whisper'd you, and bid you shun it:
Instead of teaching you to fib
I made you blush, when you had done it.
You made folks laugh that else would sleep;
Truly a very fine defence;
229

They would not let me off so cheap,
You made them laugh at my expence.
My Lord, I speak it to your glory,
When arguments could not prevail,
I have prevailed, by a short story;
Therefore I'll tell you a short tale:
“A lord, like many of the land,
“There was, that scorn'd to balk his passions:
“He gave the ton, I understand,
“To all the Macaroni fashions:
“This Lord was over head and ears
“In love, you'll find in modern histories—
“Love with himself; for it appears,
“Like you, he had no other mistress.
“He let the Arena stroke and pat him;
“She laugh'd, with prudence, in her sleeve,
“At table, whether she laugh'd at him
“Or with him, how should he perceive?
“His love, she knew, was fix'd and true:
“She did not laugh at him for this;
230

“She laugh'd at him, because she knew
“He had no business with a miss.”
Where none could suffer but ourselves,
You were my pilot night and day;
Driven, by the rapids, amongst shelves
And quicksands, we were cast away.
As to the faults of constitution,
I took with you my natural share,
They might be help'd with resolution,
But that was more than we could bear.
Expos'd to many a sooty flatus,
That blows out of the devil's bellows,
Vapours to flatten or elate us,
We must be always foolish fellows,
Who was it put you upon rhyming?
I did; to find you an employment
I pull'd the string, and left you chiming,
I wound you up for your enjoyment.
For the same purpose, or a better,
I made you pore in books and poke,
231

Till you could hardly see a letter,
Till it was almost past a joke.
What would become of you, do you think,
Was I to leave you quite and clean,
To take away your pen and ink,
And leave you nothing but your spleen?
Forgetting all you have read or wrote,
Some fair enchantress of the town,
The rustling of a petticoat,
Might turn your wisdom upside down.
Strange passions in an evil hour
Come unawares; and what's more sad,
Even when men have lost all power,
But that of running silly mad.
Without assistance from above,
Or such a faithful friend as me,
Who knows but you may fall in love
Like Dashwood, when you are sixty-three.
232

The Caput Mortuum, we descry,
Of vice, in Harrington's inanity,
But in a doatard's love-sick eye,
The Caput Mortuum of insanity.
1778, November 25.
235

A MONSIEUR LE GENERAL HALE.

TRANSLATION, FOR THE TEA-TABLE.

To-day our Cleveland squires dine here,
You can't conceive how you'll admire us,
If you will come, and in your rear,
Bring up your ladies to unsquire us?
When an adept will undertake him
She can unsquire her man with ease;
She makes the squire at once forsake him
When once she makes him wish to please.
On earth whatever is delightful,
Grateful or pleasant above measure,
Without a female soon grows frightful,
Or gives one greater pain than pleasure.
Without a General, you know,
And every creature understands,
What is an army but a show,
Like the militia, and train-bands?
236

Would not our horse, and foot, and guards,
Be good for nought but a review?
Or to sit down and play at cards,
Or gallop with the King to Kew?
Without the ladies all our feasts,
As I'm a sinner amongst sinners,
Are only ord'naries for beasts,
Like fox-hunters or horse-race dinners.
The Pope, throughout his papal-life,
No other Prince, the Pope alone,
Has neither general nor wife,
I mean, no lady of his own.
Exempt from war, free from desire,
In peace profound he spends his days,
The dew of heaven quenches his fire,
The grace of God keeps him from frays.
A favour that's bestowed so rarely,
And not the privilege of birth,
Proves all their holinesses fairly
To be God's vicars upon earth,
237

Folks without grace lead no such lives,
And without grace, 'tis no great wonder:
We must have generals and wives,
And mistresses to keep us under,
Oct. 15, 1775.
238

PANTY'S SWEETHEART.

As stiff as a stake, with a light wanton air,
Consumptive and hectick, and worse for the wear:
No tooth in her head, like a hen in the moot,
From her rump to her toppin as bare as a coot:
If her lips are like rubies and warm as a toast,
Her face is as thin and as pale as a ghost:
Eat up with the vapours; as dry as a stick;
And her breath is enough to make a dog sick:
In spite of her vapours and pestilent breath,
That would soon put a poor mackarony to death,
Her Panty, quite lost in a sea of delight,
Enraptur'd, can feast on her lips the whole night;
Can cheer, with warm kisses, the gloomiest day,
And find in November the sweetness of May.
Yet so frail is his love, when ardently press'd,
'Tis so easy to kindle a flame in her breast:
239

Though her sovereign to-night, he knows to his sorrow,
His footman, perhaps, may succeed him to-morrow.
If, after all this, you are hard of belief,
And would fain know her name—turn over the leaf.
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